I stand in a fume-filled street

packed with people.

They walk from one street to another

with the sun and floating clouds.

The last of December

carries our 

white breathings and

the smell of roasted sweet potatoes.

He walks from me

with his perfume floating off

of his navy-blue suit.

This kind of smell 

is of a somber italian's

round buttons of clothes,

cobble stones near

the Ponte Vecchio,

lined with flower shops,

Suddenly, it brings me back to three years ago,

when I wrapped myself

with a new padded quilt

in a hotel in my hometown.

At that time,

I was a little girl who usually felt

curious about everything I met.

I barely can remember more,

only the special perfume 

which pounced at me,

when I was sunk by

the soft and cool air

when the rain ended.