While walking down the Appian Way, on stones Worn smooth by myriad myriad sandaled feet, I see a broken tomb bereft of bones Once wrapped with care and linen winding sheet. Nearby the blood-red poppies crowd a slab Of marble—on display for peregrines— That serves me as a place to sit and grab A bite and look upon the Apennines. Behind my weary legs, in bas relief, A stony face with fractured nose and cheeks, Carved long ago to ease a father’s grief, Awakens just for me and softly speaks: Quod eram es. What time has done to me. Quod eris sum. It too shall do to thee.