DANTE INFERRED
Canto XV

Ora cen porta l’un de’ duri margin;

e ’l fummo del ruscel di sopra aduggia,
sí che dal foco salva l’acqua e li argini.
Quali Fiamminghi tra Guizzante e Bruggia,
temendo ’l fiotto che ’nver’ lor s’avventa,
fanno lo schermo perche ’l mar si fuggia;
e quali Padoan lungo la Brenta,
per difender lor ville e lor castelli,
anzi che Carentana il caldo senta:
a tale imagine eran fatti quelli,
tutto che né sí alti né sí grossi,
qual che si fosse, lo maestro félli.
Già eravam da la selva rimossi
tanto, ch’i’ non avrei visto dov’era,
perch’ io dietro rivolto mi fossi,
quando incontrammo d’anime una schiera...


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16
Fifteenth Chance

Seen through a porthole: a margin of moon.
Smoke rustles through its own diaspora
seeking salvation by focusing large.
What qualifies among its rags to brood
(tremendously fought over lost events,
fanned by ocean percolations in fugue)
equates a path from lungs to lips
no different from village to castle;
the answer careens for your called-for scent,
a tale imagined that quails for an errand,
some token salted with secrets --
it walks the sea where its master fell
like a gyrating self remiss...
and there, among the shining birdlike
wonders, perched in direct revolt to
damnation, incriminates what’s shared.
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