So Virgil, with his flair and drama, has to tell everybody, as per usual,
And the news spreads, a hundred shades or more
Gathering in the ditch to stare at me
In wonderment – and forgetting to feel their pain.
So will I wither when looked at by a load of sinners?
A thought had occurred to him:
—If you have a way back,
If you’re not going to be trapped in hell,
You, who perhaps will shortly see the sun,
Warn the guerrilla Fra Dolcino to provision himself,
Unless he’d like to join me here quite soon,
The Novarese will have the snows on their side,
He will driven out of his mountain hiding-place, if not careful,
The only thing that can defeat him is bad preparation.
Though why Mohammed would interest himself
With the fallings-out of the Apostolic Brothers at Novara …
As sure as eggs is eggs, they’ll be others,
They carelessly sow schism, without any thought,
They do it for the aggrandisement.
And Mohamed now hunting for a means to wobbly walk,
His arms might place his feet,
But the arms as unreliable. He had to do his circle,
(For how long yet we do not know)
He did his best, and off he went.
From out of the rest of them, gaping,
Another, amateur laryngectomy applied by some razor,
Nose hacked off clean, one ear gone,
And, before the others had the chance,
One wheezed, bubbled, from a windpipe, scarlet foam:
—I’m Piero da Medicina
With your own sins yet to be accounted,
And you I saw above, in the air,
I think we have met before,
Should you ever see that gentle plain again
That slopes from Vercelli down to Marcabò,
Spare a thought.