The fire dips beneath the azure sea;
All eyes turn to their own hands.
No one spies the serpents slithering
From the long stretched shadows
Of a garden ripe with glistening fruit.
Demons whisper in the peoples’ ears—
The straw cast down,
The crows descend.
Fruit rots and garden fades—
Ravens circle high above
The corpses of the fools.
Old men stir within their ancient tombs—
The dream is dead,
Another Rome, decayed.