Cold stone beneath my heavy boots
Deep in the city's ancient roots
I sift the powder white as snow
While all the sleeping fountains flow
The oven breathes a steady heat
Above the empty cobblestone street
The iron key turns in the lock
I beat the rhythm of the clock
I bake the Roman flour gold
A story that the mornings hold
Fresh warm crust and salted cream
Lost inside a baker's dream
The coffee pot begins to sing
I hear the distant chapel ring
I glaze the tart with lemon zest
Before the city wakes from rest
The oven breathes a steady heat
Above the empty cobblestone street
The iron key turns in the lock
I beat the rhythm of the clock
I bake the Roman flour gold
A story that the mornings hold
Fresh warm crust and salted cream
Lost inside a baker's dream
The regulars will arrive soon
Under a fading silver moon
They want the sourdough and rye
Before the purple turns to sky
My apron stained with butter grease
A moment of a quiet peace
Just me and the yeast and the grain
Until the daylight breaks the chain
I bake the Roman flour gold
A story that the mornings hold
Fresh warm crust and salted cream
Lost inside a baker's dream
I stack the trays in wooden rows
As the early amber sunlight glows
I wipe the counter clean and bright
Leaving behind the lonely night
I bake the Roman flour gold
A story that the mornings hold
Fresh warm crust and salted cream
Lost inside a baker's dream
Roman flour gold.
Sift the powder white.
Fresh warm crust.
