On Encountering Fouquet in the Circle
It's the heretics' gift to see what's far ahead
But never what is under her own nose.
But you may ask a question of the dead:
Yes, you are immortal; there are those
Who'll never hear of how the bishop lied
But only hear of songs that you composed,
And how, reformed, you joined the other side
To devote yourself to rid the world of ones
Who with the body said the spirit dies--
So kill their spirits, first, then kill their sons.
No, have no worries they'll forget your name
More perfect than the perfect on their tongues
(More than a thousand with me here are lain)
Or that your deeds might someday come to light
And you, as with your God, would know disdain--
Our tombs are open; yours is shut up tight.
Folquet de Marselha was a troubadour who had a sudden change of heart and became a monk. It was a fine career move, because he eventually became Bishop of Toulouse; just had to help kill off a lot of his former party pals to get there. The prompt for today from NaPoWriMo was to do a terza rima. I tried to work in some of Canto X, which is about chatting with the heretics and has a disputed line.
1 comment:
where he dyed himself blue (Toulouse was the center of Woad dyeing) and lived happily ever after.
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