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the way they’re lowering his coffin looks so careful, far from final, as if he was just testing the old wooden boards leading down Stairs to the gondolas
selling ice-cream to cool-looking Germans giving his soul to this strange wailing sect made him look like a fish out of the waters of the old Italian town down by the lagoon
while they’re chanting on about the protection of angels, the kingdom being as imminent as 'this poor sinner’s death' I’m discovering new depths of emotions behind your black widow’s veil
deeper than the shallow surface of public mourning deeper than the memories of your shared exiled life deep-sea blue in your beautiful sadness transcending the masquerades and the masks of death
which you know well enough, those Venetian blinds for the soul, the Masque of the Red Death, the Mask of the Black or White Death, all changing into the Masque of Sudden Death
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Venice in Your Eyes |
