180. ‘Po, ben puo’ tu portartene la scorza’

River Po, you are quick to carry my body

along with your powerful, swift stream,

but my spirit that is hidden here within

cares neither for your force, nor any other:

without the need to tack from side to side

its desire heads straight towards the breeze,

beating its wings towards her golden hair,

despite the waves, the wind, and sail, and oars.

King of the rivers, proud and noble flood,

meeting the sun when he leads on the dawn,

leaving behind you a much lovelier light,

you bear only my mortal part on your crest:

the other, clothed in lover’s plumage,

goes flying on towards its sweet home.