# Satanella (1932)/Chapter 3

Booming drums and blaring trumpets, Ringing bells on every tower, Sacred songs each throat is chanting Till with all this sound and bustle, Seems to quake the very island. Constantly the throng is growing While a glorious procession 'cross the bridge is slowly winding.
Booming drums and blaring trumpets, All abounds in festive glory, Yes, the very sun from heaven Pours a stream of gold abundance On the crosiers, ensigns, crosses, On the mitres and chasubles.
On each side of this procession Rows of bald-pate monks are flanking. In the center, walking slowly, Prettiest of city's daughters Bear a picture of Madonna.
Through the incense' smoky columns Barely penetrates the sunshine, Barely o'er the clanging church bells Heard monks' psalms and songs of people.
​Close behind the monks and maidens Midst his clergy, walks the bishop On whose cloak and shining monstrance Flaming brilliants are burning.
In the summer heat, two servants Bending 'neath their swaying burden Watt cool breezes o'er his features With a fan of ostrich feathers.
And the bishop, with his monstrance All around him passes blessings, And where'er his gaze but wanders Masses kneel in dust before him.
After bishop, in one column, Rides the Johannitic Order, And their swords, belts, shields and helmets Burn as gold beneath the sunshine.
And the silver-haired grand-master On a snow-white horse is riding, On each side a page to lead him By a gold embroidered bridle.
'twixt his comrades, Roderigo In full armor, splendid raiment, Walking with a cloudy forehead, Lowered head and stormy vision.
​Through the squares and down the avenues, In one line drags the procession, O'er the fields, beyond the city, Shining, monstrous snake resembling.
Well I know that you would query Why this marching, why this singing? When a truce was signed for five years With the warring Turkish peoples, When all ships with treasures laden Daily enter island harbors, As the Island, like a pearl, Is hemmed in with silvery waters. Crops and grapes are fully ripened, Wherever your eye but wanders, And the fishermen pull daily Burdened nets from depths of ocean.
Neither pirates of the ocean, Neither Turk, the godless heathen, Neither hunger nor poor harvest But a greater, greater evil, Greater danger dreads the islet.
From the distant steppes past Ural, From the land of fog eternal, Monstrous bird to skies has risen Bringing dread to all the people.
​Wheresoever on his journey Bat-like wings, the monster lowered, Groves were stilled, the waters vanished, Orchards wasted, grasses withered.
And much worse, the people dying Suddenly and naught availing, Like the playful moths that flutter To a tempting light attracted.
All grew bare, the glaring sunshine Bleached the yellow bones, unburied, Perished all but cloud-dark vultures And hyennas in the forests.
And this bird—a plague they called him, Or a punishment of God—now Lightly flew o'er every ocean, Soared above each mountain apex.
In a veil of poisoned vapor He would fly by night and daylight, Where he flew, the sun grew crimson, Howled the dogs where'er he landed.
Fears, lamenting, sighs and curses Spread he 'fore him in confusion As he flew from Ural mountains To Byzantium with tempests.
​On the shores of Asia Minor Many cities stand deserted, Ships are rotting in the harbors, In the streets rot human bodies.
And in midst of scorching summer Near the very shores of Rhodos This black Turk made his appearance, He whose shield, the blood-red sunshine, Whose projectiles strike each target And whose sword of poisoned vapors Penetrates most hardened armour.
That is why the long procession Leaves the city for the ruins, To the nook where hangs the picture; Supplicating, weeping, praying, Asking for Madonna's succour In the Island's pressing hour.
That is why each city portal And in haste each island harbor Is enclosed with chains of iron. But the plague through air is flying But the plague kills with its breathing.
No I know not if the plague-bird Of his flight will change direction Hot the wind . . . the sun grows crimson All in yellow fog . . . enfolded.
​Booming drums and blaring trumpets, Throngs are marching toward the ruins. . . .