Like a tigress behind a hunter who's
snatched and bears her baby away am I,
tracking hardened deaf indifferent Death rich
with my beloved's beautiful body.
As if to pile unforgettable pain
on my heart, as I crossed her realm's
threshold, scornfully she closed the doors. Why?
She leaves nothing undone to deprive and
twist our lives, and yet she's not satisfied.
She wishes to crack our wings--and as they trace
proud flight's vast curve towards desire we fall
to earth. It's useless to long to die--we
all must--I choose only to fool death, yet my
sweet times turn bitter by remembering them now.
|An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition|
From V XCIV:94 and B A2:8:59 and Visconti XCIV, 94. See also R L:194 Key