The Vampire Giovane*

The sickly child lay still as stone

His face as pale as winter weather

The hair on his head a mop of gold

A wisp of his curls like that of a feather

Shivering, feverish, then deathly cold

His lips were painted a failing white

The tips of his teeth then began to mold

Fearsome needles shining fierce in the night

His smile was scarce and crudely made

A hellish red light gleamed in his eyes

The candlelit darkness would not fade

The boy—not a boy anymore—would not cry.

* In Italian, giovane means “young”.