You step off the night bus knees shaking
Piazza Navona still sleeping no faking
Fountain water catches first pale light
Your thumb finds the compass cold and tight
Silver needle trembling on cracked glass
Points toward home but you don't look back
Morning vendors roll their carts in slow
You pocket the north let the city go
Espresso steam rises from steel machines
Baristas unlock doors wipe down the scenes
Tourist maps stay folded in leather bags
You snap the compass face no flags no tags
Pigeons scatter across Bernini's stone
Your camera clicks once captures the unknown
Lens cap clicks shut leather strap on wrist
Needle settles north no place on the list
Silver needle trembling on cracked glass
Points toward home but you don't look back
Morning vendors roll their carts in slow
You pocket the north let the city go
Church bells ring six from Santa Maria
Sleepy tourists still dream in dormitory
Return ticket burns in your jacket pocket
Rome wears your footsteps like a silver locket
Cobblestones warm under worn-out soles
Compass rests quiet where the morning falls
You breathe in the city salt and stone and spice
North stays in your palm not in your advice
Silver needle trembling on cracked glass
Points toward home but you don't look back
Morning vendors roll their carts in slow
You pocket the north let the city go
Silver needle trembling on cracked glass
You pocket the north let the city go
Needle points north you walk away
Morning swallows the compass whole
