I am afraid I have deceived myself
with what I have lived upon for many
long years. Is it habit orders these lines?
I wrote them in an effort to reach God.
Oh I'm afraid these are springes for birds.
I've a tin ear, blunt words, and a foolish
respect for useful days spent uselessly,
When I reason with myself I get nowhere,
I feel only the pain of self-reproach.
So I pray for no thoughts, for blank silence,
to be consumed in this fire's embrace.
But grief breaks in, hot tears are running down
my face, body--so I will sing to God
who, deaf to impressive words, hears the heart.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
V CLXXXVIII:348. From B S1:179:174 (320) Key