The stone still holds the crowd’s old breath,
the cheers that danced with blood and death.
A stage of bones, a throne of screams—
Rome built her myths on shattered dreams.
The marble cracked but did not break.
The ground still drinks what lions take.
And silence now, where echoes cling,
feels louder than the roar of kings.
I walked the pit where shadows played,
where men were beasts, and gods were made.
The sun was hot, but history colder—
each step I took, the ghosts grew bolder.
You don’t forget a place like this.
It smells of dust. Of rust. Of hiss—
a whisper in the ancient tongue
that asks which side you’d fight among.
The tourists pose. The cameras click.
But underneath, the air feels thick.
Not just with time, but with regret—
the kind no empire can forget.