You know this: I must lose you once more and cannot.
Like well-aimed bullets I feel
Every deed, every cry, even the salt spray
Whelming the quay
And bringing the spring
To dark on Genoa's ports.
Country of ironwork and wood of ship-masts,
Like a forest in the evening-dust.
A drone is drawn out of wide open space,
Scraping like a nail on panes. I seek the sign
I have long lost, the one pledge ever mine
from you.
And hell is for certain