The cold wind from a lagoon.
The silent coffins of gondolas.
I, in that night – so ill, and young so –
Had stretched myself against a lion.
There on tower, with a song irony,
The giants tolls in that night hour.
Mark sank in the lagoon, all moonlit,
Iconostas, patterned all over.
In darkness of the palace’s gallery,
Slightly with moon illuminated,
Hiding from all, with my head on the plate,
Bloodstained, there goes Salomeya.
All ’round sleep – the palaces and channels,
And also the people, only the sliding step
Of ghost, and only the staring
Of head, filled with the anguish bad.
August 1909
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