The Song of Hate (a translation of Il Canto dell'Odio, by L. Stecchetti)
by Pierfrancesco La Mura
Rated "PG" by the Author.
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A translation of the Italian poem "Il Canto dell'Odio" (1877), by Lorenzo Stecchetti (alias Olindo Guerrini). The original poem and a short bio of the author are, respectively, at
THE SONG OF HATE - by Lorenzo Stecchetti (1877)
As you shall sleep forgotten
under the waxy soil
and the cross of God shall stand upright
infixed above your spoils
As both your cheeks shall melt in rot
over your shaky teeth
and in the foetid vacuum of your orbs
maggots shall swarm and breed
For you that slumber, which to most is peace
shall be renewed torment
and a remorse shall come, steadfast and cold
to fret upon your brain.
A remorse, the sharpest and most cruel, shall
come over your burial
in spite of God, and in spite of his cross
to gnaw upon your bones.
I shall be that remorse. I, seeking you
in the dark of the night
Lamia who shuns the morn, shall come and howl
as would howl a she-wolf;
I shall with mine own nails dig up the earth
by your virtue made dung
and split asunder the foul planks which hold
your infamous carrion.
Ah, how in your heart still vermillion shall
I quench the hate of old
Ah, with what joy shall I protrude my claw
into your shameless womb!
On your putrescent belly, nestled up
I shall forever dwell
A specter of vengeance and sin, a
monstrosity from hell;
And at your ear, which was so fair, shall I
sayings which shall set your brain on fire
like glowing hot iron
When you shall ask: why do you sting me, and
drench me with your poison?
I shall respond: don't you remember your
hair, which looked so awesome?
Don't you recall the plentiful blond mane
falling upon your chest
and eyes of blackest tint, and bottomless
sparkled by yellow flames?
And the audacities of your bosom, the
opulence of the hip?
Don't you recall how beautiful you were
provocative, and pale?
But are you not then that who her naked breasts
exposed to public eyes
and, foaming Licisca, made her own bed
into a true traffic hub?
Are you not the one who drunks and soldiers
welcomed in her embrace
lowered herself to unspeakable kisses
yet laughed upon my face?
And as I loved you, and fell upon my knees
in front of you, and, you see
when you looked at me I only wanted
to die under your feet
Why deny - to me, who loved you so - a
gentle glance, when for you
I would have made myself a slave, I would
have made myself depraved?
Why did you say no, when crawling at your
feet I implored your mercy
while your pimps out in the street awaited
for the next batch of Brits?
You laughed? Now listen! Up from the cave grave
this sinful corpse of yours
your naked flesh so much I adored
I am nailing to the pillory
And the pillory are those verses, whereas I condemn you
to eternal blame, and punishments
so harsh that you shall long
for those dispensed in hell.
Here shall you ever die a new death, oh accursed
slowly being pierced with pins
and with your shame, my vengeance
between your eyes I seal.
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|Reviewed by Axilea MU
|Quest odio incredibile di cui dovremmo liberarci, quest odio di un uomo che non tollera il rifiuto e quindi non sopporta il fatto che una donna abbia il semplicissimo, sacrosanto diritto... di scegliere, quest odio esiste sempre e fa soffrire tante donne e tanti uomini, così, inutilmente.
Non ho letto questa poesia in italiano, ma in inglese non tradurrei "torso", troppo tecnico, secondo me. Sceglierei "bosom", penso.
Comunque grazie per averci fatto scoprire questa poesia grazie ad un'accuratissima traduzione.