Beatrice

Through fields of ash, burnt, without verdure,     where I was complaining one day to Nature,     and slowly sharpened the knife of my thought,     as I wandered aimlessly, against my heart,     I saw descend, at noon, on my brow,     a storm-filled and a sinister cloud,     holding a vicious demonic horde,     resembling cruel, and curious dwarfs.     They gazing at me, considering me, as cool     as passers-by admiring a fool,     I heard them laughing and whispering in synch,     exchanging many a nudge and a wink:      Lets contemplate this caricature,     this Hamlets shadow, echoing his posture,     his indecisive looks, and wild hair.     Its a shame to see that epicure there,     that pauper, that actor on holiday, that droll     fellow, because he can play a fine role,     trying to interest with his tears     the eagles, the grasshoppers, streams and flowers,     and even proclaiming his public tirades     to us who invented those ancient parades?     I might (since my pride, high as the mountains,     overtops clouds and the cries of demons)     simply have turned my regal head,     if Id not seen, to that obscene crowd wed,     a crime that failed to make the sun rock,     the queen of my heart, with her matchless look,     laughing with them at my dark distress,     and now and then yielding a filthy caress.