My father in a storm of pigeons in San Marco’s Aquare points up, “Now look at those horses well.” His words bring back Browning’s Last Duchess.
“They’er yours,” he says, “They came with Tiridates to Italy in Nero’s day overland, not to pollute the sea. Perfect symbols of our craft. They blend bronze with our tales of fiery steeds.
“On such a beast Sanasar flew into the sun. Just how these four were planted on this roof is a mystery to all except tourists with Armenian blood.”
We move in for a closer view of horses that can be seen only fro far away.
Copyright © 2003 Diana Der Hovanessian