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: ' Let's contemplate this caricature, this Hamlet's shadow, echoing his posture, his indecisive looks, and wild hair. It's 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 I'd 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.