Hollow as a seashell
and as washed in light,
Caecelia Metella’s tomb lies open
to the sun, her self
long since departed.
All along the road
departed glories,
mausoleums, and Maxentius’ ruins,
shimmer among the tall rank grasses.
In the catacombs,
remains long moved,
the sleeping cells line neat
as cells in honeycomb,
sweet nurture, sweeter rest.
Kathleen Griffin
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/ad-catacumbas/
