They each exist, one after the other, on skiffs
gliding through canals at the dead of night.
The moon burns topaz, street-lamps sigh.
One deserter whispers the Ave Maria.
Clap go the hurried boots of statesmen
chasing shadows down cobbled streets.
The schismatic tongue, some say, lashes heresy.
Townsfolk who graft with hammer and anvil
have begun to question the orthodox treatise.
Fog engulfs every street. Personae flee:
persecuted for their crafted rhetoric,
each prays in silence to the amethyst sea.