Oppressive thoughts, crazy, destructive, crowd
into my mind, heart, and soul, tedious
days, flesh so aching, harder and harder
to bear--in a world which won't let me be--
the cause? the man who was my asylum,
always ready to offer me his hand,
now he lives with God in radiant light,
and has left me who am so hurt and sad.
I wish my torments would overcome me--
or through his help be called to God--I wish
for an end to such slow and bitter days.
Pushed over the edge many times, near death
by my own hand: prevented only by
this intense urge to be restored to him.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V XII:21 & B A1:47:26. See also R LVI:153. Translation: Therault 183-4. Key