Prologue
Verona, city of love,
The joyous city, they say—
But do they know the tragedy
That pours down each narrow street?
It's the story they whisper secretly,
A pain cut in granite.
And why should they ever forget it—
It showed them how to love, though single.
The city of smoke,
The city of cinders,
Speaks of two youth,
Spliced together in sweet impulses.
They loved abundantly.
But only for four days—
Or five acts, to be precise—
Then disappeared in a tragic mist.
Could a fate be more sorrowful?
Could love ever hurt more real?
Even Paris, the abandoned one,
Lay by her side in death as well.
Was it his fault?
That her heart belonged to another name?
Is love ever just—
Or a cruel, losing game?
The city of myths,
Of masks and mystery
Where hearts break to teach others ,The cost of history.
But then again,
It's all fiction.
is it?
