She had already kissed Antony’s dead lips,

And on her knees before Augustus had poured out her tears …

And the servants betrayed her. Victorious trumpets blare

Under the Roman eagle, and the mist of evening drifts.

Then enters the last captive of her beauty,

Tall and grave, and he whispers in embarrassment:

“You—like a slave … will be led before him in the triumph …”

But the swan’s neck remains peacefully inclined.

And tomorrow they’ll put the children in chains. Oh, how little remains

For her to do on earth—joke a little with this boy

And, as if in a valedictory gesture of compassion,

Place the black viper on her dusky breast with an indifferent hand.