v. Last Night
So the hour had come. I could delay no further;
my bad-luck star had risen, hate-bright Lucifer
(how often had I rebuked those scurrying past:
‘reflect where we are going, what we leave, don’t rush.’
How many times had I lied, mostly to myself,
pretending I’d fixed the hour that I would set out?
Three times I reached the door, three times I was called back
as sluggish feet indulged slowed, reluctant heart;
I made those ‘final’ farewells in my wretchedness,
ran back for one more kiss - the last, I swore, the last.
What else could I do, held fast by love of country?
Yet here it was: the night exile had been decreed.
‘Why rush?’ I asked again. ‘We’re headed for the East:
as Carthage was destroyed, Rome must be relinquished.’)
Now I felt disengaged, raw, wrenched in two,
limb hacked from limb, bone from bone, sinew from sinew.
In the house, a cry went up, cold, piercing, bereft,
in every corner mourning hands beat on bare breasts
(if I might extrapolate, exchange great for small
such was the sound of defeat, despair at Troy’s fall).
My wife clung around my neck as I tried to leave,
our grief intermingled, hearts - and tears - on our sleeves:
‘Let me share your journey, an exile’s exile wife,
ride stowaway on your departing ship, light freight.
Caesar himself has commanded you to leave here,
for me it’s duty, love: love will be my Caesar.’
And so she pleaded, she tried, she tried to persuade
but as so many times before, she tried in vain.
I set out, a corpse too early for its own wake,
carried out for burial, unshaven, unkempt.
My wife fell at our household shrine, faint with sorrow,
half-conscious now, overcome by rising shadow;
lay there calling out my name, moaning in the dust
as if her child - as if I was just laid to rest.
(from Tristia I.3)
my bad-luck star had risen, hate-bright Lucifer
(how often had I rebuked those scurrying past:
‘reflect where we are going, what we leave, don’t rush.’
How many times had I lied, mostly to myself,
pretending I’d fixed the hour that I would set out?
Three times I reached the door, three times I was called back
as sluggish feet indulged slowed, reluctant heart;
I made those ‘final’ farewells in my wretchedness,
ran back for one more kiss - the last, I swore, the last.
What else could I do, held fast by love of country?
Yet here it was: the night exile had been decreed.
‘Why rush?’ I asked again. ‘We’re headed for the East:
as Carthage was destroyed, Rome must be relinquished.’)
Now I felt disengaged, raw, wrenched in two,
limb hacked from limb, bone from bone, sinew from sinew.
In the house, a cry went up, cold, piercing, bereft,
in every corner mourning hands beat on bare breasts
(if I might extrapolate, exchange great for small
such was the sound of defeat, despair at Troy’s fall).
My wife clung around my neck as I tried to leave,
our grief intermingled, hearts - and tears - on our sleeves:
‘Let me share your journey, an exile’s exile wife,
ride stowaway on your departing ship, light freight.
Caesar himself has commanded you to leave here,
for me it’s duty, love: love will be my Caesar.’
And so she pleaded, she tried, she tried to persuade
but as so many times before, she tried in vain.
I set out, a corpse too early for its own wake,
carried out for burial, unshaven, unkempt.
My wife fell at our household shrine, faint with sorrow,
half-conscious now, overcome by rising shadow;
lay there calling out my name, moaning in the dust
as if her child - as if I was just laid to rest.
(from Tristia I.3)
Translated by Josephine Balmer
Page(s) 65
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