'It takes so many years', as Eliot said,
So many years of inner strain and sweat,
'To learn that one is dead'.
This inner hellish nothingness,
This sense of fruitless aridness,
This lack of inspiration
Foreshadows fecundation.
Before he could regain Beatrice,
Dante had to taste Inferno.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem