fallen verses

If the honoured branch that wards off
heaven’s anger when great Jupiter thunders
had not refused me its laurel crown
which usually wreathes those who write poetry,

I would be a friend of those Muses of yours
that this unworthy age has abandoned:
but that injustice keeps me far from
Minerva who first gave us olive trees:

for the sands of Ethiopia could not burn
hotter under the burning sun than I blaze
at losing a thing so beloved, as my own.

Search out a steadier fount than mine,
which only wells in an impoverished stream,
except for that which distils from my tears.

Note: A reply to a poem from Andrea Stramazzo
da Perugia, asking for verses.

trans. A.S. Kline

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