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The city of masks whose grayness
reflects indifference,--
Venice, you’re bound to suffer
the fate of Atlantis.
Thus, finding a small cozy place
in one of your attics,
a poet stands ready to capture
the end of existence.
Reflecting off the dark water
the stars shine brightly.
Dreams are redoubled here,--
the nights are wonderful.
The poet inhales the air and writes,
“Death seems doubtful,”
exhales, pauses, and continues on,
“...afterlife likely.”