A Daily Countdown to 700 Years with the “colpi d’Amor”
“Benedetto sia ‘l giorno, et ‘l mese, et l’anno, / et la stagione, e’l tempo, et l’ora, e ‘l punto…” — Rvf 61
“Blessed be the day, and the month, and the year, and the season, and the time, and the hour, and the moment…”(Kline).
Se bianche non son prima ambe le tempie
ch’a poco a poco par che ‘l tempo mischi,
securo non sarò, bench’io m’arrischi
talor ov’Amor l’arco tira et empie.
Non temo già che piú mi strazi o scempie,
né mi ritenga perch’anchor m’invischi,
né m’apra il cor perché di fuor l’incischi
con sue saette velenose et empie.
Lagrime omai da gli occhi uscir non ponno,
ma di gire infin là sanno il vïaggio,
sí ch’a pena fia mai ch’i’ ‘l passo chiuda.
Ben mi pò riscaldare il fiero raggio,
non sí ch’i’ arda; et può turbarmi il sonno,
ma romper no, l’imagine aspra et cruda.
If both my temples time it seems is greying
little by little are still not quite white
I’ll not be safe: I’ll still adventure where
Love sometimes aims his bow and fires.
I no longer fear he’ll maim or kill me,
or capture me, even though he traps me,
nor open up my heart because it’s pierced
by his venomous and cruel arrows.
No tears can flow now from my eyes,
though they know by now which way to flow,
since sorrow’s never closed the way to them.
I can be heated easily by fierce rays
and yet not set ablaze: that sharp, cruel form
can trouble my sleep but cannot wake me.