Already the city no longer drifts
like a bait, catching the days as they surface.
The glassy palaces ring more brittly
against your gaze. And from the gardens
the summer hangs like a heap of marionettes,
headfirst, exhausted, done in.
But from the ground, out of old forest skeletons,
volition rises: as if overnight
the commander of the sea had to double
the galleys in the sleepless arsenal,
in order to tar the next morning breeze
with a fleet, which pushes out rowing
and then suddenly, all its flags dawning,
seizes the high wind, radiant and dire.
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