The ruthless fan
smothers among its meridians
the Ocean’s overdone blue,
its Indian enchantments.
Eurasia unbound
undulates in its motion
changing the satin shades
of the Jura on the surface.
In its pale breath
the cholera has designs on
tropical half-shadows,
ships in quarantine.
A hanged Chinaman
traces on the fan
the outline of shimmering
Asiatic carrion.
O fan of remote
aromas like snows
trampled on by dead
men in other ages!
Innocent and limp
as a faded cloth,
you excite in the air
a poison that chokes.
Death! No-silence!
Who has spoken of death?
O fan, your absinthe
breathes faintly, incessantly.
Leave a Reply