Satanella (1932)/Chapter 3
Booming drums and blaring trumpets,
Ringing bells on every tower,
Sacred songs each throat is chanting
Till with all this sound and bustle,
Seems to quake the very island.
Constantly the throng is growing
While a glorious procession
'cross the bridge is slowly winding.
Booming drums and blaring trumpets,
All abounds in festive glory,
Yes, the very sun from heaven
Pours a stream of gold abundance
On the crosiers, ensigns, crosses,
On the mitres and chasubles.
On each side of this procession
Rows of bald-pate monks are flanking.
In the center, walking slowly,
Prettiest of city's daughters
Bear a picture of Madonna.
Through the incense' smoky columns
Barely penetrates the sunshine,
Barely o'er the clanging church bells
Heard monks' psalms and songs of people.
Close behind the monks and maidens
Midst his clergy, walks the bishop
On whose cloak and shining monstrance
Flaming brilliants are burning.
In the summer heat, two servants
Bending 'neath their swaying burden
Watt cool breezes o'er his features
With a fan of ostrich feathers.
And the bishop, with his monstrance
All around him passes blessings,
And where'er his gaze but wanders
Masses kneel in dust before him.
After bishop, in one column,
Rides the Johannitic Order,
And their swords, belts, shields and helmets
Burn as gold beneath the sunshine.
And the silver-haired grand-master
On a snow-white horse is riding,
On each side a page to lead him
By a gold embroidered bridle.
'twixt his comrades, Roderigo
In full armor, splendid raiment,
Walking with a cloudy forehead,
Lowered head and stormy vision.
Through the squares and down the avenues,
In one line drags the procession,
O'er the fields, beyond the city,
Shining, monstrous snake resembling.
Well I know that you would query
Why this marching, why this singing?
When a truce was signed for five years
With the warring Turkish peoples,
When all ships with treasures laden
Daily enter island harbors,
As the Island, like a pearl,
Is hemmed in with silvery waters.
Crops and grapes are fully ripened,
Wherever your eye but wanders,
And the fishermen pull daily
Burdened nets from depths of ocean.
Neither pirates of the ocean,
Neither Turk, the godless heathen,
Neither hunger nor poor harvest
But a greater, greater evil,
Greater danger dreads the islet.
From the distant steppes past Ural,
From the land of fog eternal,
Monstrous bird to skies has risen
Bringing dread to all the people.
Wheresoever on his journey
Bat-like wings, the monster lowered,
Groves were stilled, the waters vanished,
Orchards wasted, grasses withered.
And much worse, the people dying
Suddenly and naught availing,
Like the playful moths that flutter
To a tempting light attracted.
All grew bare, the glaring sunshine
Bleached the yellow bones, unburied,
Perished all but cloud-dark vultures
And hyennas in the forests.
And this bird—a plague they called him,
Or a punishment of God—now
Lightly flew o'er every ocean,
Soared above each mountain apex.
In a veil of poisoned vapor
He would fly by night and daylight,
Where he flew, the sun grew crimson,
Howled the dogs where'er he landed.
Fears, lamenting, sighs and curses
Spread he 'fore him in confusion
As he flew from Ural mountains
To Byzantium with tempests.
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.
Booming drums and blaring trumpets,
Throngs are marching toward the ruins. . . .
