97. ‘Ahi bella libertà, come tu m’ai,’

Ah precious freedom, how you’ve shown me

in parting from me, the state I was in

before that first arrow made the wound

the one from which I never can be healed!

My eyes were so enamoured of their sorrow,

that reason’s rein was of no worth,

since I held all things mortal in disdain:

alas, I so accustomed them, from the start!

I don’t allow myself to listen except to those

who speak of her, my death: and only go filling

the air with her name, that sounds so sweet.

Love spurs me on to no other place,

my feet know no other road, nor can the hand

praise anyone but her in my writing.