I do bless the epic Muse to have honoured me,
and have revered my labour by her refference.
I would shudder, had she on my life in Hades said nothing.
No one could imagine that I'm living here thousand lifes,
as many as the times the giant rock rolls down
plus those I push it up on the stumbling slopes.
Stones have become these hands
out of my heart's stubborness and irate wrath.
Steel my armrests, hydraulic lifts,
springs propellent my leg muscles,
stony pillows the cheeks,
the huge rock upon to rest.
I do not need any succour,
not even of any Persephone or Pluto,
no need even of any favour for a different punishment.
I dignify the penalty of the very murky life.
I shiver lest the rock stand stable on the summit.
I fear to wither -in that case- motionless up there.
Soul's breath spouts from my labour's sweat.
Mute joy every arduous ascent.
I hope not to stay with vaquum hands.
Out of my flesh throes come my fate's delights.
Smiling I descent the breathing space of the slope.
My senses feel there the dark grace's benison.
And if I miss the light of the stars and that of the sun,
it's enough for me to see the mortals of the earth's mud,
beyond the crazy desperate life's denial
or slavish decency of timidity mortal,
endure their own pains under their rays' warmth.