One sees, in this candle-light of damp street
lamps, pride is merely a lack of love.
Selfishness guides our coffee spoons,
making us chose only comfort, security.
La Vita Nuova lies in a storage space.
La gloriosa donna della mia mente.
Now, love is an adventure with no map,
no set rules as in the old days, when liking
demanded a certain give and take. No more,
and those who are caught in the nonsense
of doubt, or fear, or withered hearts,
cannot make their own rules as these would,
like baby's blocks, spelling gobbledegook, be
incomprehensible. Few, the long chosen,
have an angel, as did Tobit, to guide
on the way to love and happiness. Most
bumble along, hoping, dreaming, but not
seeing what is in front, looking down
because we only want to see ourselves.
L'una appresso de l'altra miriviglia.
We lose more times than we win. In those
losses gain a truer picture of murky souls,
waiting for sunlight. The emerald eyes may
have seen too much, or not enough, or be,
like eyes coming into the sun after being in
the cellar, blinded, by custom, or worse, sin.
For the Christians, the cell of inheritance
has been already been drained of blood.
Io mi senti' svegliar dentro a lo core
If we were pure of heart and imagination, we
might see patterns of light becoming dark,
like walking through the woods at dusk; myriad
colours turning to grey: we forget that walnut
trees burn bright green in the sun. We forget mercy.
Dicendo: "Or pensa pur di farmi onore".
I ask forgiveness for ending the story,
for not acting on compassion, holding back,
unsure, not trusting my elemental good.
So, I failed. Dante chose his wife, loved.
Beatrice revealed his soul.
