When fate lies hidden in a frozen palm —
A titmouse, or a pearl, or drifting snail —
We’ll reach the river: Styx, subdued and calm;
We turn around — behind the lift doors pale

Stands winter, watching with a piercing stare;
And like a cloud, transparent, light as foam,
Justinian’s plague goes floating through the air:
A plague upon both our houses, both our homes.

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Thanks to Leah Borovoi for improving the text.