The processionaries carried me in triumph, me, Bilitis, naked in a shell-shaped car, into which all through the night slaves had stripped the petals from ten thousand roses.
I was resting, hands behind my neck, my feet alone were shod in gold, my body softly stretched upon the bed formed by my warm hair mingled with cool petals.
Twelve children with winged shoulders served me as a goddess; some carried a shade and others moistened me with perfumes or burned incense in the rostrum of the car.
And round about I heard the roaring murmur of the crowd, while the breath of its desire was an aura to my nakedness, amidst the blue fog of the aromatics.