83. ‘Se bianche non son prima ambe le tempie’

If both my temples time it seems is greying

little by little are still not quite white

I’ll not be safe: I’ll still adventure where

Love sometimes aims his bow and fires.

I no longer fear he’ll maim or kill me,

or capture me, even though he traps me,

nor open up my heart because it’s pierced

by his venomous and cruel arrows.

No tears can flow now from my eyes,

though they know by now which way to flow,

since sorrow’s never closed the way to them.

I can be heated easily by fierce rays

and yet not set ablaze: that sharp, cruel form

can trouble my sleep but cannot wake me.