moonrise over the Arno River

in Florence last night. Richest of riches, goldest of golds.

The struggle is to not edit out whatever jars the renaissance splendour. Like the Roma women on the street corners, heads covered, feet bare in biting cold, hands outstretched. Holding up cardboard signs:
I am poor, destitute, hungry. I have children to feed.

We passed one who was crouched over her knees, forehead pressed to the pavement, palms pressed together in supplication.

A few miles from Firenze is the town of Prado. Where Chinese immigrants slave in sweatshops, churning out the textiles that feed the economy of this city.