To Beatrice, with Love

On the same crossroads where we met last,
I still yearn to see you come again, alone.
Let there be no humans, no old statues cast,
No dark doors, no vivid fates, just love alone.
These lives that we lived are lost like wars.

The Beatrice I know has now immortal wings,
And has grown more love than ever before.
Now nothing stops the marriage of our souls.
The Florence I loved long is now denied,
As trusted faces are jaunted in jealous eyes,
And fleeting souls lead and leave past buried.

I am here to sing and write for love so dear;
But cruel intentions consume cold intellect
That I believe was to receive trusted praise.
In desire there is the Beatrice I love again,
For no promise I can see without embrace.

I have kinsmen at home who are far now, 
With unknown fates and dwindling days.
I have my first books and an ancient ink pot
Wandering through the window for return
Of me, my verse filled in heart like an urn.
But I will not redeem, nor will listen to past.
I am a man and like my race shall move on.
This is not fate but an exile cast on my soul.

There are patrons now for me to demolish,
Enough grudge on the verse I wrote in rein,
And Satan that I saw through the homes lost.
There is still love that runs in my aged vein.

The statue of four seasons stands now,
Where we first promised to live and love.
There are grapes and graves lying beside
Like the mockery of our human dreams.

After ages we will be born and meet again,
May not be in Florence but in a far away land,
Where fate will settle down like the sea sand
And frozen dreams will live and love again.

Read Full Post »