Dante Inferno Canto 14 translated by David Bruce Gain

The love we both shared for our native town

Moved me to pick up the leaves that were down
And let them be the faded voice's gown.
We reached the woods `twixt second and third round;
God`s justice there was like a heinous hound.
What`s new? We reached a flat and open stead
Rejecting aught that wished to fill her bed.
The grim wood makes for it a garland like
Its own, the all~surrounding dismal dike.
We stopped right here, right at the border land.
This wasteland was a dry expanse of sand,
Thick burning sand, no different from the climes
That Cato`s feet packed down in other times.
God`s fearful vengeance! O how wise, how wise
Are they who read my words with fear and prize
The truths revealed so clearly to my eyes!
Though those there paid in different ways for shame,
In nude herds, yet their wailing was the same.
Some souls were stretched supine upon the ground,
And some were crouching there all tightly wound;
Some wandered, never stopping, round and round.
Full many were the roamers the sand bore;
The stretched out sufferers were a smaller corps;
Their tongues were looser, since the pain was more.
O`er all, slow rain of fire fell without stay
(A mountain snowstorm on a windless day)
Like those that beat on Alexander`s band
While he was crossing India`s torrid stand,
Flames falling, floating solid to the land.
Here he with all his men resolved to tread
The sand so that the flames might all be dead
Before they could even begin to spread.
Here too the falling blaze looked like to win;
The tinder under flint sparks is akin;
`twas in this way the torment found its twin.
Unresting hands swirled in wild rhythmic dance
In hopes to halt its relentless advance.
And I: "Guide, there were none you could not fell
Save those who met us at the gates of hell.
Who`s that big brute who`d treat both fire and rain
(See him burn there) with the same cool disdain?"
He saw me ask my guide of him and said:
"What I was once, alive, I still am, dead.
Let Jove make his smith forge that thunderbolt
He hurled to halt my blaspheming revolt.
Let lust for lasting labouring engorge
The sooty smiths at Mongibello`s forge
(As he shouts: "Help, Vulcan, come to the fore",
As he`d cried out in the Phlegrean war)
And let him hurl his thunderbolt with glee,
He`ll get no satisfaction out of me".
He spoke with much violence; my guide used more;
I`d never heard his voice so strong before:
"Capaneus, humbling shall full soon provide
An antidote to your poor preening pride.
There is no torment known of that could wage
A better war on it than your own rage".
More calmly: "Seven kings thrust Thebes; he was one;
'A God in Heaven' he cried and cries, 'There`s none'.
But, as I told him, what is really worn
On brazen breast is his own sounding scorn.
The wood is best for you to take your stand;
Place not your feet upon the burning sand".
Silent we came to where a dense stream sped
Out of the woods. Its water was so red
That even now it fills my mind with dread,
So like the one the Bulicame pours,
Its waters full oft frequented by whores.
It wore its way across the sand~strewn zone;
Its bed, as were both banks, was made of stone,
Whence the tops of both its banks received their shape.
I knew full well that this was our escape.
"Th` all~welcoming gate opes naught else one would deem
The equal of this fire~supressing stream".
My guide spoke so. "`twere well" said I, "you gave
The food the words you spoke have made me crave".
And he: "In mid~sea lies a land now dour,
Called Crete, whose king lived when the world was pure.
Mount Ida there was once wet, green, of worth,
But now deserted, discarded, of dearth.
Safe there, Rhea told her thralls they must hide
Her new born babe by screaming when he cried.
A tall old man calls the mount`s cave his home;
His back to Damietta, he faces Rome.
His head is fashioned of the finest gold;
Arms, chest are silver of the finest mould;
He`s brass from there down to where his legs splay;
The rest`s of iron, save his right foot, of clay.
Does one foot bear more weight? I`d not say nay.
A crack drains tears from all parts save the gold;
Come from his feet, they waste the cavern`s hold,
And pour down stones, to become Acheron
And other rivers, Styx and Phlegethon,
And down a channel, one that quite lacks bends,
Until they fall to where all falling ends,
To Cocytus; what that pool`s like you`ll see
With your own eyes; you`ll have no need of me".
And I: "If this small stream is sourced in Earth,
Why is`t from here it seems to have its birth?"
Then he: "This place, as you know, is a gyre;
And though I know, long traveller, you tire,
Descending, turning only to the left,
Yet you have still not circled one whole cleft.
So you should not be smitten to the core
If you see aught you`ve never seen before".
And I again: "Master, we must not shun
Phlegethon and Lethe. You shun the one
And say the other`s formed where those tears run".
He said: "Good questions, but the boiling burst
Of blood~water should surely field the first.
You`ll see Lethe, a stream beyond this bin;
Souls go there so they can be clean within
When penitence has freed them from their sin.
We`ve been here long enough; we must be freed".
So he; "Be sure you follow close my lead.
The verges are our road; they are not hot,
Since all the flames above them are forgot".