Venice

Late. The giants on the tower
Loudly bang three times.
Traveler, if you aren't daunted,
Stay silent and spy on the night.

Look! The town with the voices of Naiads'
In the elapsed spectral-light
The lacy pattern of old arcades
Where waters are frosted like glass.

True, about these hiding witches,
Behind the black veils of gondolas:
Thousands of fiery bees
Illuminate the lagoon all night.

The lion's head rests on the column;
With buoyancy shine the grand beast's eyes,
As he possesses From The Mark Evangelic,
Like Seraphim his magic wings.

Above the august cathedral heights,
The radiant luster from the mosaics.
The doves' clamors a delight to the ears:
Cooing splashes and deep sighs.

Might the cliffs be banter only?
The frosted waters — a cryptic witchcraft?
"Fire!" Cries the horrified traveler,
"What if there's no one; all gone?"

He shouted out; no one answered,
He slipped off the cliff, therefore he fell
Onto the ancient Venetian mirrors,
Far-far sites, all obscure and pale.