"Cinderella" by Will Eisner (in English)

from The Spirit Section - The Chicago Sunday
(5.10.1947)

“The Ass and His Purchaser” by Aesop (in English)

     A man wished to purchase an Ass, and agreed with its owner that he should try out the animal before he bought him. He took the Ass home and put him in the straw-yard with his other Asses, upon which the new animal left all the others and at once joined the one that was most idle and the greatest eater of them all. Seeing this, the man put a halter on him and led him back to his owner. On being asked how, in so short a time, he could have made a trial of him, he answered, "I do not need a trial; I know that he will be just the same as the one he chose for his companion." 

            A man is known by the company he keeps.

“Rimas” by Raimundo Correia (in Portuguese)

Rondo pela noite

Imaginando mil coisas

Meditando sozinho

Até a madrugada

Isto tudo é tão contrário

Medo e coragem

Amor e ódio

Revolta e compreensão

Mas nada rima nesse mundo

Apenas eu e você restávamos

Resto do que o mundo já foi

Intensamente, imensamente, eternamente

Até mesmo nós sucumbimos

Reavaliamos nossa condição

Indiferentes, deixamos de rimar

Menos um casal no mundo

Agora ando sozinho

Meditando noite adentro

Imaginando e esquecendo mil e uma coisas

Rondando até a madrugada

“Máquina Breve” by Cecília Meireles (in Portuguese)

O pequeno vaga-lume

com sua verde lanterna,

que passava pela sombra

inquietando a flor e a treva

— meteoro da noite, humilde,

dos horizontes da relva;

o pequeno vaga-lume,

queimada a sua lanterna,

jaz carbonizado e triste e

qualquer brisa o carrega:

mortalha de exíguas franjas

que foi seu corpo de festa.

Parecia uma esmeralda

e é um ponto negro na pedra.

Foi luz alada, pequena

estrela em rápida seta.

Quebrou-se a máquina breve

na precipitada queda.

E o maior sábio do mundo

sabe que não a conserta.

“Ava Maria Plena Gratia” by Oscar Wilde (in English)

Was this His coming! I had hoped to see

A scene of wondrous glory, as was told

Of some great God who in a rain of gold

Broke open bars and fell on Danae:

Or a dread vision as when Semele

Sickening for love and unappeased desire

Prayed to see God's clear body, and the fire

Caught her white limbs and slew her utterly:

With such glad dreams I sought this holy place,

And now with wondering eyes and heart I stand

Before this supreme mystery of Love:

A kneeling girl with passionless pale face,

An angel with a lily in his hand,

And over both with outstretched wings the Dove.

“In Memoriam: Francis Archibald Douglas” by Lord Alfred Douglas (in English)

Dear friend, dear brother, I have owed you this

Since many days, the tribute of a song.

Shall I cheat you who never did a wrong

To any man ? No, therefore though I miss

All art, all skill, in this short armistice

From my soul's war against the bitter throng

Of present woes, let these poor lines be strong

In love enough to bear a brother's kiss.

Dear saint, true knight, I cannot weep for you,

Nor if I could would I call back the breath

To your dear body ; God is very wise,

All that this year had in its womb He knew,

And, loving you, He sent His Son like Death,

To put His hand over your kind gray eyes.

“Fables For Little Folk” by Robert E. Howard (in English)

He was six foot four and wide as a door

And he weighed two hundred pounds

And he laughed as he spoke, "I’ll cool that bloke.

I’ll flatten him in two rounds."

Ah, the crowd they cheered, but the crowd they jeered

When his foeman stepped in the ring;

They hissed and jowled and the giant scowled

And rushed with a round-house swing.

Yes, he came full tilt but the beans were spilt

For the smaller man timed him fair

And knocked him out with a left hand clout

And the crowd gave him the air.

So the moral is this: make your foeman miss

And never lead with your right,

But the first that you’re to do is be sure

That it’s not Jack Dempsey you fight.

"Os Primeiros Minutos" by José Thiesen (in English)

Quando ela olhou para ele compreendeu que não o amava mais.

Ela virou para o lado e tentou até sorrir. Sempre soube que esta certeza um dia viria e que, vindo, não teria retorno.

Ele ainda comia seus ovos fritos com evidente prazer.

Ela egueu-se da mesa e foi até o banheiro branco encontrar-se consigo no espelho na parede. Aos trinta anos ainda era bela ela, Anabela bela.

Ouviu os pratos serem postos na pia.

Encontraram-se no quarto de dormir, ele a desabotoar a camisa.

- Não mais te amo.

- O quê?

- Eu não mais te amo.

- Piada?

- Sério. Eu não mais te amo.

- Tu queres dizer que não me amas mais?

- Isso.

Eles estava aturdido; ela, séria. Ele queria falar mas não conseguia achar as palavras.

- E esperou até agora pra me dizer isso?

- Eu não esperei. Descobri agora.

- Mas como assim, “descobri agora”?

- Apenas isso. Descobri agora que não mais te amo.

- Eu não acredito.

- Eu vou embora.

- Como assim, vais embora?

- Não mais te amo; não posso mais ficar aqui.

- Estás maluca? Eu te amo e quero que fiques comigo!

- Não é possível.

- Mas o teu amor por mim, o que houve com ele?

- Foi uma luz que se apagou. Não sei o que houve; apenas não mais te amo!

- Pare de dizer isso!

- Eu sempre soube que um dia te diria isso.

- Escute, meu amor: guarde essa mala e vamos dormir, dormir, talvez sonhar e então amanhã tudo isso parecerá distante e as coisas voltarão ao normal.

- As coisas estão normais e vou embora assim mesmo.

- Eu não posso te impedir...

- Não.

- Eu quero... eu quero te odiar!

- Faça-o. Será melhor pra ti.

Ele sentou se cama e lágrimas que vinham do fundo de sua alma começaram a rolar lentas por sua face. Mas ele não chorava, realmente.

Ela terminou sua mala e a fechou.

- Eu não tenho raiva, nem ódio nem mágoa de ti. Apenas não mais te amo.

Sem virar-se ela o ouviu sair e fechar a porta do apartamento. Ele foi até a janela e do alto de nove andares a viu sair do prédio e pegar um taxi.

Com um gesto de abraça-la, fechou os olhos e abraçou o espaço.

Como ela não lia jornais, jamais descobriu-lhe a morte.

"Ecclesiastes" (Chapter VI) by Qoheleth (in English)

Chapter 6

1 There is another evil which I have seen under the sun, and it weighs heavily upon man: 2 there is the man to whom God gives riches and property and honor, so that he lacks none of all the things he craves; yet God does not grant him power to partake of them, but a stranger devours them. This is vanity and a dire plague. 3 Should a man have a hundred children and live many years, no matter to what great age, still if he has not the full benefit of his goods, or if he is deprived of burial, of this man I proclaim that the child born dead is more fortunate than he.

4 Though it came in vain

and goes into darkness

and its name is enveloped in darkness;

5 though it has not seen  or known the sun,

yet the dead child is at rest rather than such a man.

6 Should he live twice a thousand years and not enjoy his goods, do not both go to the same place?

7 All man's toil is for his mouth,

yet his desire is not fulfilled.

8 For what advantage has the wise man over the fool, or what advantage has the poor man in knowing how to conduct himself in life? 9 "What the eyes see is better than what the desires wander after." This also is vanity and a chase after wind. 10 Whatever is, was long ago given its name, and the nature of man is known, and that he cannot contend in judgment with one who is stronger than he. 11 For though there are many sayings that multiply vanity, what profit is there for a man?

12 For who knows what is good for a man in life, the limited days of his vain life (which God has made like a shadow)? Because-who is there to tell a man what will come after him under the sun?

Untitled Spirit tale by Will Eisner (in English)

from The Spirit Section - The Chicago Sunday, 12.10.1947. 

"Homily for the Holy Mass on the Solemnity of Pentecost" by Pope Francis (in English)

Vatican Basilica

Sunday, 8 June 2014

 “They were all filled with the Holy Spirit” (Acts 2:4).

Speaking to the Apostles at the Last Supper, Jesus said that after he left this world he would send them the gift of the Father, that is, the Holy Spirit (cf. Jn 15:26). This promise was powerfully fulfilled on the day of Pentecost, when the Holy Spirit descended upon the disciples, who were gathered in the Upper Room. This extraordinary outpouring was not limited solely to that moment, but was an event that was renewed and still continues to be renewed. Christ glorified at the right hand of the Father continues to fulfill his promise, sending upon the Church the life-giving Spirit, who teaches us, reminds us, and lets us speak.

The Holy Spirit teaches us: he is the Interior Master. He guides us along the right path, through life’s challenges. He teaches us the path, the way. In the early times of the Church, Christianity was called “the way” (cf. Acts 9:2), and Jesus himself is the Way. The Holy Spirit teaches us to follow him, to walk in his footprints. More than a master of doctrine, the Holy Spirit is a master of life. And he surely takes part in life as well as in knowledge, but within the broadest and most harmonious horizons of Christian existence.

The Holy Spirit reminds us, he reminds us of all that Jesus said. He is the living memory of the Church, and when he reminds us, he helps us to understand the words of the Lord.

This remembrance in the Spirit and by virtue of the Spirit is not reduced to a mnemonic fact; it is an essential aspect of Christ’s presence within us and within his Church. The Spirit of truth and charity reminds us of all that Christ said, and helps us to enter ever more fully into the meaning of his words. We all have this experience: one moment, in any situation, there is an idea and then another connects with a passage from Scripture .... It is the Spirit who leads us to take this path: the path of the living memory of the Church. And he asks us for a response: the more generous our response, the more Jesus’ words become life within us, becoming attitudes, choices, actions, testimony. In essence the Spirit reminds of the commandment of love, and calls us to live it.

A Christian without memory is not a true Christian but only halfway there: a man or a woman, a prisoner of the moment, who doesn’t know how to treasure his or her history, doesn’t know how to read it and live it as salvation history. With the help of the Holy Spirit, however, we are able to interpret interior inspirations and life events in light of Jesus’ words. And thus, within us grows the knowledge of memory, knowledge of the heart, which is a gift of the Spirit. May the Holy Spirit rekindle the Christian memory within all of us! And there that day with the Apostles was our Lady of Memory, who from the beginning meditated on all those things in her heart. Mary, our Mother, was there. May she help us on this path of memory.

The Holy Spirit teaches us, reminds us, and — another aspect — lets us speak, with God and with men. There are no muted Christians, mute of soul; no, there’s no place for this.

He lets us speak with God in prayer. Prayer is a gift that we freely receive; dialoguing with him in the Holy Spirit, who prays in us and allows us to address God, calling him Father, Dad, Abba. (cf. Rm 8:15; Gal 4:4); and this is not merely an “expression” but a reality: we truly are children of God. “All who are led by the Spirit of God are sons of God” (Rm 8:14).

He lets us speak in the act of faith. Without the Holy Spirit, none of us is able to say: “Jesus is Lord” — we heard this today. It is the Spirit who lets us speak with people in fraternal dialogue. He lets us speak with others, recognizing them as brothers and sisters; to speak with friendship, with tenderness, with compassion, understanding the heartaches and hopes, the sorrows and joys of others.

But there’s more: the Holy Spirit also lets us speak to men through prophecy, making us humble and docile “channels” of God’s Word. Prophecy is made with candour, to openly demonstrate the contradictions and injustices, but always with compassion and constructive intent. Charged with the Spirit of love, we can be signs and instruments of God who loves, who serves, who gives life.

In summary: the Holy Spirit teaches us the way; he reminds us of and explains Jesus’ words; he lets us pray and say “Father” to God, and lets us speak to men and women in fraternal dialogue and lets us speak in prophecy.

The day of Pentecost, when the disciples “were all filled with the Holy Spirit”, was the baptism of the Church, which was born in “going out”, in “departure” to proclaim the Good News to everyone. The Mother Church, who departs in order to serve. Let us remember the other Mother, our Mother who sets out in haste to serve. Mother Church and Mother Mary: both virgins, both mothers, both women. Jesus was peremptory with the Apostles: do not depart from Jerusalem, but wait until you have received the power of the Holy Spirit from above (cf. Acts 1:4-8). Without Him there is no mission, there is no evangelization. For this, with the whole Church, with our Mother Catholic Church, let us implore: Come, Holy Spirit!

Sonnet XII by William Shakespeare (in English)

When I do count the clock that tells the time,

And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;

When I behold the violet past prime,

And sable curls, all silvered o'er with white;

When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,

Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,

And summer's green all girded up in sheaves,

Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,

Then of thy beauty do I question make,

That thou among the wastes of time must go,

Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsake

And die as fast as they see others grow;

     And nothing 'gainst Time's scythe can make defence

     Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence.

"A Luis" by Castro Alves (in Portuguese)

(no dia de seu natalício)

A imaginação, com o vôo ousado,

aspira a principio à eternidade...

Depois um pequeno espaço basta em breve

para os destroços de nossas esperanças iludidas! ...

Goethe

Como um perfume de longínquas plagas

Traz o vento da pátria ao peregrino,

Ó meu amigo! que saudade infinda

Tu me trazes dos tempos de menino!

É o ledo enxame de sutis abelhas

Que vem lembrar à flor o mel d'aurora...

Acres perfumes de uma idade ardente

Quando o lábio sorri... mas nunca chora!

Que tempos idos! que esperanças louras!

Que cismas de poesia e de futuro!

Nas páginas do triste Lamartine

Quanto sonho de amor pousava puro! ...

E tu falavas de um amor celeste,

De um anjo, que depois se fez esposa...

— Moça, que troca os risos de criança

Pelo meigo cismar de mãe formosa.

Oh! meu amigo! neste doce instante

o vento do passado em mim suspira,

E minh'alma estremece de alegria,

Como ao beijo da noite geme a lira.

Tu paraste na tenda, ó peregrino!

Eu vou seguindo do deserto a trilha;

Pois bem... que a lira do poeta errante

Seja a bênção do lar e da família.

"The Hunting Of The Snark an Agony in Eight Fits" by Lewis Carroll (Fit the Seventh ) (in English)

                     Fit the Seventh

                    THE BANKER'S FATE

     They sought it with thimbles, they sought it with care;

          They pursued it with forks and hope;

     They threatened its life with a railway-share;

          They charmed it with smiles and soap.

     And the Banker, inspired with a courage so new

          It was matter for general remark,

     Rushed madly ahead and was lost to their view

          In his zeal to discover the Snark

     But while he was seeking with thimbles and care,

          A Bandersnatch swiftly drew nigh

     And grabbed at the Banker, who shrieked in despair,

          For he knew it was useless to fly.

     He offered large discount—he offered a cheque

          (Drawn "to bearer") for seven-pounds-ten:

     But the Bandersnatch merely extended its neck

          And grabbed at the Banker again.

     Without rest or pause—while those frumious jaws

          Went savagely snapping around—

     He skipped and he hopped, and he floundered and flopped,

          Till fainting he fell to the ground.

     The Bandersnatch fled as the others appeared

          Led on by that fear-stricken yell:

     And the Bellman remarked "It is just as I feared!"

          And solemnly tolled on his bell.

     He was black in the face, and they scarcely could trace

          The least likeness to what he had been:

     While so great was his fright that his waistcoat turned white—

          A wonderful thing to be seen!

     To the horror of all who were present that day.

          He uprose in full evening dress,

     And with senseless grimaces endeavoured to say

          What his tongue could no longer express.

     Down he sank in a chair—ran his hands through his hair—

          And chanted in mimsiest tones

     Words whose utter inanity proved his insanity,

          While he rattled a couple of bones.

     "Leave him here to his fate—it is getting so late!"

          The Bellman exclaimed in a fright.

     "We have lost half the day.  Any further delay,

          And we sha'nt catch a Snark before night!"

Untitled Poem by José Thiesen (in Portuguese)

Será que eu compreendo essa tua gana de viver, amor?

Será que eu compreendo essa fúria com que vives, amor?

Giras e giras, tão louco, nessa vida, que o meu amor não vês,

Mas essa gana, essa fúria, vês.

Pus-me de lado, saí da moldura de tua vida para viveres

Com essa gana, essa fúria, vês?

E quando nos encontramos, meu coração se aperta porquê meu amor

Não vês, com tua gana e tua fúria, vês?

"The Thing from the Sea" by Unknown Writer (in English)

art by Wally Wood - Eerie #16, Avon, July 1954.

"12 Angry Men" by Reginald Rose (in English)

Juror #7: I don't know about the rest of 'em but I'm gettin' a little tired of this yakity-yack and back-and-forth, it's gettin' us nowhere. So I guess *I'll* have to break it up; I change my vote to "not guilty."

Juror #3: You *what?*

Juror #7: You heard me, I've... had enough.

Juror #3: Whaddaya mean, you've had enough? That's no answer!

Juror #7: Hey, listen, you just uh... take care of yourself, 'uh? You know?

Juror #11: He's right. That's not an answer. What kind of a man are you? You have sat here and voted "guilty" with everyone else because there are some baseball tickets burning a hole in your pocket? And now you've changed your vote because you say you're sick of all the talking here?

Juror #7: Now listen, buddy - !

Juror #11: Who tells you that you have the right like this to play with a man's life? Don't you care...

Juror #7: Now wait a minute! You can't talk like that to me - !

Juror #11: I *can* talk like that to you! If you want to vote "not guilty", then do it because you are convinced the man is not guilty, not because you've "had enough". And if you think he is guilty, then vote that way! Or don't you have the guts to do what you think is right?

Juror #7: Now listen...

Juror #11: Guilty or not guilty?

Juror #7: I told ya! Not guilty!

Juror #11: Why?

Juror #7: ...Look, I don't have tuh...

Juror #11: You *do* have to! *Say* it! *Why?*

Juror #7: Uhh... I don't, uh... think he's guilty!

[Juror #11 stares back with impatient resignation, and finally returns to his seat]

"O Que é Que a Baiana Tem?" by Dorival Caymmi (in Portuguese)

O que é que a baiana tem?
Que é que a baiana tem?
Tem TORSO de seda, tem!
Tem brincos de ouro, tem!
Corrente de ouro, tem!
Tem pano-da-costa, tem!
Tem bata rendada, tem!
Pulseira de ouro, tem!
Tem pano-da-costa,tem!
Tem saia engomada, tem!
Sandália enfeitada, tem!
Tem graça como ninguém
Como ela requebra bem
Quando você se requebrar

Caia por cima de mim
Caia por cima de mim
Caia por cima de mim

O que é que a baiana tem?
O que é que a baiana tem?
Tem torço de seda, tem!
Tem brincos de ouro, tem!
Corrente de ouro, tem!
Tem pano-da-costa, tem!
Tem saia engomada, tem!
Sandália enfeitada, tem!
Só vai no Bonfim quem tem!
So vai no Bonfim quem tem!

Um rosário de ouro
Uma bolota assim
Quem não tem balangandães
Não vai no bonfim

Oi, não vai no bonfim
Oi, não vai no bonfim
Oi, não vai no bonfim
Oi, não vai no bonfim
Oi, não vai no bonfim
Oi, não vai no bonfim

 You can listen "O Que é Que a Baiana Tem?" sung by Carmen Miranda and Dorival Caymmi here.

Untitled Poem by José Thiesen (in Portuguese)

Um dia com amigos
Nunca é longo demais
Um dia junto de ti
É sempre curto demais.

"O Avô e o Neto" by Fernando Pessoa (in Portuguese)

Ao ver o neto a brincar

Diz, o avô entristecido:

“Ah! quem me dera voltar

A estar assim entretido!

Quem me dera o tempo quando

Castelos assim fazia,

E que os deixava ficando

Às vezes prá o outro dia.

E toda a tristeza minha

Era, ao acordar prá vê-lo,

Ver que a criada já tinha

Arruinado o castelo”.

Mas o neto não o ouve

Porque esta preocupado

Com um engano que houve

No portão para o soldado.

E, enquanto o avô cisma, e triste,

Lembra a infância que lá vai.

Já mais uma casa existe

Ou mais um castelo cai.

E o neto, olhando afinal,

E vendo o avô a chorar,

Diz: “Caiu, mas não faz mal:

Torna-se já a arranjar”.

"The Divine Comedy" by Dante Alighieri (Inferno: canto IX) (in Italian)

Inferno: Canto IX

Quel color che vilta` di fuor mi pinse

  veggendo il duca mio tornare in volta,

  piu` tosto dentro il suo novo ristrinse.

Attento si fermo` com'uom ch'ascolta;

  che' l'occhio nol potea menare a lunga

  per l'aere nero e per la nebbia folta.

<<Pur a noi converra` vincer la punga>>,

  comincio` el, <<se non… Tal ne s'offerse.

  Oh quanto tarda a me ch'altri qui giunga!>>.

I' vidi ben si` com'ei ricoperse

  lo cominciar con l'altro che poi venne,

  che fur parole a le prime diverse;

ma nondimen paura il suo dir dienne,

  perch'io traeva la parola tronca

  forse a peggior sentenzia che non tenne.

<<In questo fondo de la trista conca

  discende mai alcun del primo grado,

  che sol per pena ha la speranza cionca?>>.

Questa question fec'io; e quei <<Di rado

  incontra>>, mi rispuose, <<che di noi

  faccia il cammino alcun per qual io vado.

Ver e` ch'altra fiata qua giu` fui,

  congiurato da quella Eriton cruda

  che richiamava l'ombre a' corpi sui.

Di poco era di me la carne nuda,

  ch'ella mi fece intrar dentr'a quel muro,

  per trarne un spirto del cerchio di Giuda.

Quell'e` 'l piu` basso loco e 'l piu` oscuro,

  e 'l piu` lontan dal ciel che tutto gira:

  ben so 'l cammin; pero` ti fa sicuro.

Questa palude che 'l gran puzzo spira

  cigne dintorno la citta` dolente,

  u' non potemo intrare omai sanz'ira>>.

E altro disse, ma non l'ho a mente;

  pero` che l'occhio m'avea tutto tratto

  ver' l'alta torre a la cima rovente,

dove in un punto furon dritte ratto

  tre furie infernal di sangue tinte,

  che membra feminine avieno e atto,

e con idre verdissime eran cinte;

  serpentelli e ceraste avien per crine,

  onde le fiere tempie erano avvinte.

E quei, che ben conobbe le meschine

  de la regina de l'etterno pianto,

  <<Guarda>>, mi disse, <<le feroci Erine.

Quest'e` Megera dal sinistro canto;

  quella che piange dal destro e` Aletto;

  Tesifon e` nel mezzo>>; e tacque a tanto.

Con l'unghie si fendea ciascuna il petto;

  battiensi a palme, e gridavan si` alto,

  ch'i' mi strinsi al poeta per sospetto.

<<Vegna Medusa: si` 'l farem di smalto>>,

  dicevan tutte riguardando in giuso;

  <<mal non vengiammo in Teseo l'assalto>>.

<<Volgiti 'n dietro e tien lo viso chiuso;

  che' se 'l Gorgon si mostra e tu 'l vedessi,

  nulla sarebbe di tornar mai suso>>.

Cosi` disse 'l maestro; ed elli stessi

  mi volse, e non si tenne a le mie mani,

  che con le sue ancor non mi chiudessi.

O voi ch'avete li 'ntelletti sani,

  mirate la dottrina che s'asconde

  sotto 'l velame de li versi strani.

E gia` venia su per le torbide onde

  un fracasso d'un suon, pien di spavento,

  per cui tremavano amendue le sponde,

non altrimenti fatto che d'un vento

  impetuoso per li avversi ardori,

  che fier la selva e sanz'alcun rattento

li rami schianta, abbatte e porta fori;

  dinanzi polveroso va superbo,

  e fa fuggir le fiere e li pastori.

Gli occhi mi sciolse e disse: <<Or drizza il nerbo

  del viso su per quella schiuma antica

  per indi ove quel fummo e` piu` acerbo>>.

Come le rane innanzi a la nimica

  biscia per l'acqua si dileguan tutte,

  fin ch'a la terra ciascuna s'abbica,

vid'io piu` di mille anime distrutte

  fuggir cosi` dinanzi ad un ch'al passo

  passava Stige con le piante asciutte.

Dal volto rimovea quell'aere grasso,

  menando la sinistra innanzi spesso;

  e sol di quell'angoscia parea lasso.

Ben m'accorsi ch'elli era da ciel messo,

  e volsimi al maestro; e quei fe' segno

  ch'i' stessi queto ed inchinassi ad esso.

Ahi quanto mi parea pien di disdegno!

  Venne a la porta, e con una verghetta

  l'aperse, che non v'ebbe alcun ritegno.

<<O cacciati del ciel, gente dispetta>>,

  comincio` elli in su l'orribil soglia,

  <<ond'esta oltracotanza in voi s'alletta?

Perche' recalcitrate a quella voglia

  a cui non puote il fin mai esser mozzo,

  e che piu` volte v'ha cresciuta doglia?

Che giova ne le fata dar di cozzo?

  Cerbero vostro, se ben vi ricorda,

  ne porta ancor pelato il mento e 'l gozzo>>.

Poi si rivolse per la strada lorda,

  e non fe' motto a noi, ma fe' sembiante

  d'omo cui altra cura stringa e morda

che quella di colui che li e` davante;

  e noi movemmo i piedi inver' la terra,

  sicuri appresso le parole sante.

Dentro li 'ntrammo sanz'alcuna guerra;

  e io, ch'avea di riguardar disio

  la condizion che tal fortezza serra,

com'io fui dentro, l'occhio intorno invio;

  e veggio ad ogne man grande campagna

  piena di duolo e di tormento rio.

Si` come ad Arli, ove Rodano stagna,

  si` com'a Pola, presso del Carnaro

  ch'Italia chiude e suoi termini bagna,

fanno i sepulcri tutt'il loco varo,

  cosi` facevan quivi d'ogne parte,

  salvo che 'l modo v'era piu` amaro;

che' tra gli avelli fiamme erano sparte,

  per le quali eran si` del tutto accesi,

  che ferro piu` non chiede verun'arte.

Tutti li lor coperchi eran sospesi,

  e fuor n'uscivan si` duri lamenti,

  che ben parean di miseri e d'offesi.

E io: <<Maestro, quai son quelle genti

  che, seppellite dentro da quell'arche,

  si fan sentir coi sospiri dolenti?>>.

Ed elli a me: <<Qui son li eresiarche

  con lor seguaci, d'ogne setta, e molto

  piu` che non credi son le tombe carche.

Simile qui con simile e` sepolto,

  e i monimenti son piu` e men caldi>>.

  E poi ch'a la man destra si fu volto,

passammo tra i martiri e li alti spaldi.