Under the burning sky of Venice,
Where birds tread cautiously.
In a plaza under spires of God,
Where street merchants push their hands to my face,
Callous and coarse and cold,
Worn from pushing a languid life through the canals.
A girl sits, winding on the stone ground.
She washes thoughts away,
As Roman walls stretch on and bend to the light,
And ceilings of gold lay hidden in the Cathedral of San Marco's.
While this girl waits for the sun to run down,
She runs fingers over the people passing over
Before they disappear into crowded alleys of glass and silk.
For her night will not come.
I drift onto the ferry,
Leaving a fiery sky,
Watching her statue in pale sunlight.