An arrival at a lodging by the sea,
like a piece from Aivazovsky;
with a party under the old pine bridge,
the trial sets our afflictions free.
The impending waves our comrades flank,
yet in peace and grace advances our rank;
on the rocky islet our senses embrace,
the scent of roses from a whitened bank.
Under the staircase the catacombs call,
at my retreat under the noble floor;
I chance upon your slumbering notes,
in a dark gallery by a marble door.
From nowhere chants a nocturnal plea,
as buried ghosts cling to their creed;
though the earthy waves their mirrors purge,
in ashes the familiar shadows they see.
