The Autumn sneaked into Venice with a whisper,

Chasing withered leaves with a whoosh of her rust gown.

On Saint Mark’s Square she made all the pigeons scamper,

Rocked the gondolas with a light air, squatting down

On the Grand Canal’s weather-washed, greyish stone steps.

Arriving early to have a sisterly chat

Envious Winter was following her footsteps,

Bringing ice on her forehead, under her blue hat

And squatted down by her sister on the cold stone,

Invoking a curse on the town in low whisper.

The bells of Saint Mark were ringing with a sad tone…

…Above the grey buildings there was Death in the air…

© P. J. Oszmann (September 1978 in Hungarian. Translation 2001.

 Revised 2003.)

One miserable, cold, damp September day in Venice (around the time of Pope Paul Vl’s death) and a photograph, very similar to the one posted above, inspired this poem, written in Hungarian. (Below is the original)

My wife and I attended an International Surgical Conference there.

The night following the Pope’s death a woman, across the street from our hotel window, was wailing for the Pope all night.

      Halál Velencėben.

Suttogva szökött be Velencėbe az Ösz

Fonnyadt leveleket kerget köppenyėvel

S Szent Márk terėn galambokat riaszt a bösz

Szėl, s gondolát ringat melabús zenėvel,

Mielött gubbaszt a szürke lėpcsö felett.

Ide követte irigy növėre a Tėl,

Homlokán, kalapja alatt, hozván jeget,

S a kėt növėr gubbasztva, suttogva beszėl,

A korhado városra átkot igėrve,

S mig a hideg szėl kerget szürke felleget,

S Szent Márk harangja kėr hivöket Misėre…

… Halál lebeg a szürke paloták felett…

© P. J. Oszmann (September 1978)