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Now who holds me here? why not free myself
from this dark prison pressing in on me, this entangled flesh? a thick mist blocks a beloved light summoning, impelling me up to him. And if the images reverie shadows forth--I should say, Love deep-dyed in my heart--ease the torment, lick the raw wound, how will it be after death if a shade can thus gratify me? But fear of eternal bootless crying cripples my dauntless wings, could hell be less? Awake reason, blood, passion--and dare it. Show others what hidden torment leads to. People who cannot die can do nothing. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V CVI:106. From B A1:56:31. See also R LIII:147. Key |
