What's that out there? Those leagues of hovering sand?
"It's Cytherea, famous in the songs,
the old boys'
EI
Dorado, it belongs
to legend. Look closely, it's a poor land."
Island of secret orgies none profess,
the august shade of Aphrodite plays
like douds of incense over your blue bays,
and weights the heart with love and heaviness.
Island whose myrtle esplanades arouse
our nerves, here heart-sighs and the adoration
of every land and age and generation
ramble like coal-red roses on a house,
to the eternal cooing of the dove.
"No, Cytherea crumbles, cakes and dries,
a rocky desert troubled by shrill cries . .
And yet I see one portent stretch above
us. Is it a temple where the pagan powers
hover in naked majesty to bless
the arbors, goldfish ponds and terraces,
and the young priestess is in love with flowers?
No, nosing through these shoals, and coming near
enough to scare the birds with our white sails,
we saw a man spread-eagled on the nails
of a cross hanging like a cypress there.
Ferocious vultures choking down thick blood
gutted the hanging man, already foul;
each smacked its beak like the flat of a trowel
into the private places of their food.
