I came to Rome not to praise it but to bury it. The good done lives after but evil is often just not considered but not buried either. Where is your glory but, in the photography, and admissions into your ruins of the perfectly clothed tourists? They sit around and listen to orators that give way to reason for phrases and superstitions. Your horse chariots have been given way to horseless chariots that have the power of two hundred plus horses. For all glory is fleeting and all things will go back from which they came. Your strength gave way to quietly leaving as the Germanic tribes came to your doors. I am going back in time before injustice became that of knowledge hidden in the non-tangible idea of the mind. I walk your cobbled streets; I look around to see the blood of innocent lives brought back to your floors upon the sandals of your soldiers. You are decaying but though something new was built over you, the new was taken away to remember that strength is your master and this gave you glory and this is what the world wishes to hold to. To have pomp, rule and reign, to be the world power but you fell and where now Rome is your power?