Florante de Laura
In this dark wood thick with gloom
The thick weave of thorny vines…
Rays of Phoebus cannot pierce,
Almost, the solid wilderness.
Great trees loom, disclosing
Sadness only, grief, despair.
Mournful birds dispel
The cheerful air, the stoic pose.
Convolutions of the vine
On branch and twig bristle with thorns.
Their fruit, as if downed with knives,
Wounds the passerby.
And flowers for the looming trees,
Specks of bright shooting through leaves)
Wear the color of mourning,
Sharpen the dizzying stench.
Clumps of cypress and young fig
Cast a terrifying shade
Fruitless, they spread great leaves.
Darkness deepens on the weed.
And beasts that roam
Are shapes of serpent, basilisk,
Hyena, tiger — beasts that prey
On man and beast.