DEATH IN VENICE

Death, in Venice,
they take on a trip
like a bride.

Between two blues
the mournful gondola
                          glides,
covered by slow velvets,
and you hardly perceive
                          the light thud
of one dip of an oar and then another.

Slowly, follows
like a floating garden,
the one carrying the farewell
                          made of roses
from friends.

And the mourners close
                          the cortège,
that is lost in the sea.
Accompanying them,
with its finger on its lips,
silence.

Not far off, the island waits.

Behind the rosy wall
                          that encloses it
cypresses ascend, tall
                          and dark.