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I live on these dreadful and lonely rocks
like a grieving bird who loathes the green trees and fresh water; I shun those walking this earth I love; I am escaping from myself. Here I am immediately with him; and when I cannot feel the Sun I long to touch, I can turn my thoughts away from all else and ready my wings to seek him. A sudden wind; my eager wings beating, I reach him, and know deep, if fleeting, joy far surpassing any earthly pleasure. If I could see his face and body as I can command and lose myself in dreams, I would know something of God's perfection. |
An image of the Italian text from Visconti's 1840 edition |
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Notes: V VI:148. From B A2:15:63. Translations: Roscoe 96-7; Lawley 151-2; Lefèvre-Deumier 47; Thérault 193-4; Barnstone 305; Tusiani 175; Gibaldi 38. Key |
