Dante Inferno Canto 13 translated by D. B.

Gain
He`s not back when we see a forest pall
That is not marked by any path at all,
Boughs bent, not smooth, with leaves not green bur dark,
No fruit, but poison~galls on withered bark.
Even `twixt Cecina and Corneto
No rougher brakes or thicker brambles grow
For those wild beasts that hate the well~tilled row.
`tis here that nests give filthy Harpies joy;
They cleared the Strephades of sons of Troy
With filthy forecasts they would soon destroy.
Each is a wide~winged and human~faced ent,
The belly fat and feathered, the claws bent;
Perched in the trees they shriek their wild lament.
My guide: "Know that you`re in the second land
And shall be till we reach the burning sand.
Look around now and see what to believe;
Though my words might, your own eyes won`t deceive".
From all around I heard an uncaused wail;
Perplexed by this, I felt my firm feet fail.
He thought I thought that these stumps` voices` blaze
Belonged to ones that hid there from our gaze.
He said: "If any branch be broke by you
Then what you`re thinking now will break off too".
I plucked a tiny twig from a great sloe;
Its trunk cried out: "Why do you tear me so?"
The wound was dark with blood; I heard it call:
"You tear me. Have you no pity at all?
Though we, once men, are scrub, yet we still ache;
You should have shown more warmth, e`en to a snake".
A green log`s end burns; th` other is a spout
For sap hissing with air it forces out;
Such, words and blood, was the split trunk`s outpour;
I drop the hand~held branch, cut to the core.
My sage: "Smit soul, if only he believed
My verses, he would ne`er have been deceived,
And you would never have been so beset;
But the truth was so easy to forget;
I urged him to do what I now regret.
But tell him who you were, so he can earn
Your pardon by naking your fame reburn
In the world above whither he`ll return".
The trunk: "Your words are words that I would clutch.
I feel I must reply when they are such.
I held both keys that fitted Frederick`s heart;
I turned them both, locked, unlocked with such art
That I let few inside; such my loyal drive
I failed to sleep or even to survive.
The slut whose hot eyes surveyed Caesar`s hall,
Debauching courts and bringing death to all
Made all, and they Augustus too, my foe,
And changed the joy my honours gave to woe.
I, in my scorn, from which my troubles flow,
Deeming myself scornless if down below,
Dealt my righteous self an unrighteous blow.
By these strange roots of my own tree I swear
To you that I in all was ever fair
To my own honoured Lord, to one so rare.
If one of you has made the earth his aim,
When you are there, restore me my good name
Which envy has converted into shame".
My poet paused then: "Ask what seems to suit
Since he who has said so much is now mute".
Then I: "You know my wants, so must ask more.
I can`t, since pity`s pierced me to the core".
Then he: "So he may fill your every need,
Prisoned soul, may it please you to proceed.
Tell us how you, others, became a tree
And, if you know, if you will e`er be free".
His pants changed to a voice: "What`s sought
Will have an answer that must be but short.
Minos sends a wild body~sundered soul
As soon as sundered to the seventh hole,
Not to some alloted forest redoubt
But anywhere, like a spelt grain, to sprout,
Turn tree; then Harpies, feasting on its leaves,
Create its pain and, for it, what reprieves.
Like others, we`ll claim our bodies, to house
Us, but, scorned, they will never more be ours.
Each one shall, dragged into this gloomy glade,
Hang on the thorn of his self~slaughtering shade".
We stood attentive to the tree we`d found,
In hopes he might have more he could expound,
When we were startled by a noisy sound,
Such as a hunter hears from his own bounds
When first the boars, then all the chase resounds
With foliage smashed and crash of hunting hounds.
Then to the left two fleeing shapes were viewed;
They sliced the bobbing branches as they slewed;
Their flesh was gashed and gored and they were nude.
"Come, Death", so said the first one in the chase;
The other, who could not keep up the pace:
"Lano, you weren`t so swift; you seemed to wilt
When come to Toppo`s tournament to tilt".
And then, from lack of breath perhaps, he slips
Into a bush and wraps himself in rips.
With ravening the wood behind was rich,
Since every dog there was a freed black bitch.
Though hid, he`s soon gored by those greedy gangs,
His torn bits borne in their ferocious fangs.
My guide hand~held me to the bush that bore
Its vain laments in every bleeding sore.
"Giacomo da Sant` Andrea" ir cried,
"What use was it to pick on me to hide?
Am I to blame if all your goodness died?"
My master: "Who were you whose ruddy flood
Preaches a sorrowing sermon in your blood?"
Then he: "Close the bush with each leaf and bud
That`s left. You`re just in time to see the rape
That`s sundered me from my so well~loved shape.
I`m from the town that prized the Baptist more
Than that patron whom she had had before,
Who swears his skill will cause her endless pain
And, were it not the Arno`s bridge`s gain
That traces of his image still remain,
Those citizens who so manfully wrought
Anew from the ruin that Atilla brought
Upon it all would all have toiled for naught.
I made my home fit only for a mort".