Literature
THE PLAGUE
The Plague
The wind carries a breath of brine and rot,
From ships that dock where the sun is forgot.
A silent traveler, hidden in the fur,
Where the life of the city used to stir.
First comes the fever, a bloom on the chest,
The heavy shadow of the unwelcome guest.
The bells of the steeple have forgotten to ring,
For there are no hymns left for the choir to sing.
In the narrow alleys, the shadows grow tall,
As the Great Mortality visits them all.
The swellings are dark, like grapes on the vine,
Turning the blood into bitter, black wine.
A cross of vermillion is struck on the door,
While the dying collapse on the cold, earthen floor.
"Bring out your dead," is the cry in the street,
Timed to the rhythm of slow-shuffling feet.
No holy water, no incense, no prayer,
Can scrub the heavy miasma from the air.
The physician arrives in a mask of a bird,
His hollowed-out eyes speak a terror unheard.
Dried herbs in the beak to filter the dread,
But he walks a path paved with the bones of the
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