O wandering Venetian, you knew a great man
when you saw him.
Charles the Fifth, reigning and abdicating,
who could swing the world and put it aside —
No need of history to prove his power!
Here he is in his gold-encrusted armor,
n the beautiful crimson-aproned horse —
A man.

And there, not far away, his son:
The narrow-between-the-eyes, the would-be-great;
Hard, tyrannic, resolute, patient and prying,
Who said long prayers, morning, noon and night,
To his hard, tyrannic, resolute, patient and prying God —
You knew him too, O wandering painter from Venice.
He shall never escape you.

But she, so beautiful in velvet and pearls —
Wife of the one, mother of the other —
Did she feel, did she know?
You looked into her eyes, but they do not tell us.
There between those two she stood — cool, firm, perfect.
A crystal, holding her world ensphered.

No need of scribbling pens, O wandering Venetian!