They bore my body in a gondola Of gilt and black in Renaissance procession Across the liquid grace of Venice, A gold-caped archimandrite and boy crucifer Standing in the gondola before, A flotilla following, water rippling to Vibrations of my late-sung Requiem From the dark basilica where the doges lie. Sky spun with stars, strange birds of fire, As oars swirled muddy water counterpoint, And in a circle on a bridge, cat-eyes glittered In the darkness watching. And I remembered The red wines of Venice. But violins Abuzz seemed to beckon from the cypressed island, A magic garden, where in that grave Beside the ivy-covered wall might be the key To break the spell. And Diaghilev Not fifty yards away, with what new Rite of springtime to encourage.
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Warren Wedin email@example.com