 |
| This is a work in progress, OK? OK. |
But the Queen, oh the Queen, wounded
All this while by a profound affection,
Feeds the injury with her own blood.
She is laid to waste by an inner fire.
The many virtues of the man, the
Glories of his family line, twisting in her mind.
His face, his words, cling, fixed, to her heart.
Love allows no quiet rest for tired limbs.
And after Dawn has lit the earth with
The lamp of the Eternal Sun
And she has pulled across the
Dewy shadows of the Heavens,
Dido spoke with her sister,
Heart of her own heart, so:
"Anna, dearest, sung dreams that hang me out,
That terrify me. The stranger:
The man who visited our house, a guest.
He has such bearing! Such a noble heart! Such courage.
I believe and I don't think I'm wrong,
but he is the son of a god.
Fear works on the minds of the debased, but he,
Oh he has been thrown about so much!
He told such a tale of the exhaustion of war.
If I hadn't set my mind, unmoveable, on never
Accepting the chains of matrimony again,
After my first love fell prey to the cunning of death,
If I hadn't made a vow that I would never lie
In a marriage-bed, then just this once
I might have done a thing that I'd regret.
I admit it, Anna, after the fate of poor Sychaeus
My husband, and our family home bloodied
By fraternal butchery, this is the only man
Who softened my sight, who set my heart to wander.
I recognise the embers of the old fire..."
