Black and White

Blocks of stone.

Paltry remnants

left behind when our brothers

had been chosen

and become part of

a greater whole.

We are only what remains,

quietly waiting for the

flood of tourists  

to ebb and wane.

Cresting at eleven,

by five withdrawing,

the people gradually trickle

 into the quiet square,

mill around,

spill over into

one street or another.

 Swirl around.

Ripples tripping over a stone.

Some, a few,

stop momentarily,

to aim an iPhone

at themselves

against the multicolored facade.

But no one thinks of immortalizing us

unless by chance 

we serve as prop for

that last photo.

The wind passes over us.

Rain washes us clean.

We absorb

the warmth of the sun,

remembering our tumultuous birth

of fire and erupting volcanoes.

Now, retirees, we sit quietly,

black and white,

observing the glitter

of the facade across the way

as the sun makes its rounds

and the tourists leave

to be replaced by others

while we wait

quietly for them

tomorrow

and tomorrow

and the days to come.