On the shores of Asia Minor
Many cities stand deserted,
Ships are rotting in the harbors,
In the streets rot human bodies.
And in midst of scorching summer
Near the very shores of Rhodos
This black Turk made his appearance,
He whose shield, the blood-red sunshine,
Whose projectiles strike each target
And whose sword of poisoned vapors
Penetrates most hardened armour.
That is why the long procession
Leaves the city for the ruins,
To the nook where hangs the picture;
Supplicating, weeping, praying,
Asking for Madonna's succour
In the Island's pressing hour.
That is why each city portal
And in haste each island harbor
Is enclosed with chains of iron.
But the plague through air is flying
But the plague kills with its breathing.
No I know not if the plague-bird
Of his flight will change direction
Hot the wind . . . the sun grows crimson
All in yellow fog . . . enfolded.
35
