Poezja

Reading on--
'I can't believe it', cried old Vallette, in toney Italian. 'The nerve!'
His secretary's quip was plainer. He adored the old man and his crazy bravery.
'Een-cred-DEE-bee--lay! Can she think of no interest but her own? A chip off the old block. Thanks for nothing!'
And so on.
'Oliver, she's your sovereign', old Vallette reminded him.
Oliver said nothing. True her didn't like bad-mouthing his queen.
Say nought, regret nought. But he wanted his sympathies clear.
Through the corbelled windows, towards the ruins of St Elmo across the harbor, old Vallette studied the crumbled western rampart, the stone-filled moat, the figures of the engineers atop the wall. Like ants.
He recalled the battle--those long, hot, awful, bloody days--
days he would like to forget but couldn't. He thought of the men--how bravely they fought, how horribly they died.
He viewed the yellow fronts of the palaces--graceful outcroppings of limestone cliffs they sprang from--
both turned fiery gold in the low sun,
the in-between stretch of dozing water a pool for descending angels to bathe in.
It bent back the sun's rays.
Magnifico!
'As it always would be', thought old Vallette. Thanks to him. Anachronism, indeed!
But he didn't say that last part. He just felt it.
Turning from the window, he swore in Italian.
It must have sounded gracious to Oliver's ears.
Without doubt, English was the language of profanity.
On the marquinia table, inlaid with pink and orange stone
he tossed the missive bearing the English queen's seal.
'Thanks, thanks, thanks, much-indebted--thanks for...
thanks, thanks, etc.'
'Of course', said old Vallette. 'Don't mention it.'
The envoys who brought it couldn't read but in the hall below
were feasting on plaice and drinking Sicilian wine.
Outside, the sea bristled with ships, sailing placidly
to Genoa, Marseille, faraway Valencia,
bearing spices and wheat from the Levant and slaves to London.
'Good riddance. And the language--barbaric!'
There was lots to do. Old horrors fade before fresh triumphs.
Across the harbor the city was rising fast.
He, himself, laid the first stone. Would he live to see it done?
He doubted it. Not the way he felt. But God willing, he would.
The mantel clock chimed six. Along the peninsula
in each little belfrey, swung a bell on its rung. Soon
there was a chorus. It lasted a whole minute, then ceased.
Old Vallette liked the bell sound.
He would have a little dinner then go to bed.
'And Oliver...'
'Yes, sir?'
'Go to bed.'