Trinity Journal of Literary Translation
Online: Michelangelo 101 Phoebus never stretches – never hugs with light
the whole circumference of this cold, damp, globe and so, by the rabble, we are always told that sun misunderstood is night.
She is so feeble, if a man should strike
the frailest match, her life is robbed – broken and split under flint and logs, she is so nervous and so shy.
And yet, she’s daughter to the sun and earth
if, really, she is anything at all;
the latter holds her shadow and the former gives it birth. But they’re mistaken who, for all this, call
her mighty. She’s a widow – dour, and so desperate that, for her, a firefly’s glimmer is an act of war.
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