This is a bit more free than I'd ideally like - the ending is far more mine than his, but sometimes you just can't make strict accuracy work for you.
You've asked me, Lesbia, how many more of our fond kisses might be just enough to satisfy me. Asking is a bluff but I'll give you my answer. On the shore
of Africa, line up each single grain of sand, and count them individually. The Pyramids' stone blocks, waves of each sea, leaves on all trees, and every drop of rain -
still not enough. Count every quiet star that gazes down through night at our bright love. There aren't as many of them. From above they know how very much in love we are,
but they can't count our kisses, kisses I'm sure will stretch out beyond the end of time.
A woman cradling a dead man. That much anyone human knows. That he is god, or that she is his mother may seem odd to most. The marble's cold and hard to touch
But looks like tender flesh. A hammer's blows Shattered it once. Bystanders stole the bits As holy relics or mementos. It's great they rebuilt it, and yet no-one knows
where many of the pieces went. They carved Her new nose from her unseen back; cement restoring beauty. Faithless, I consent to love such statues still. I am not starved
by losing faith, but rather I rebuild, as human, love and beauty worship killed.
Beloved, you're my life, so let's agree that what we've got now lasts eternally. You gods, stand as her good word's guarantee that she speaks truely from the heart. Thus we Shake hands. It's peace and not a victory. We'll live in bliss forever faithfully.
The people's hate will catch you when you're old when vice has rotted you. I hear them say Tradition lays down punishments. I'm told That first your vicious tongue gets carved away A buzzard's meal. Your eyes two ravens hold A moment in their beaks then gulp. That day your guts are a dog's dinner eaten cold the other bits fierce wolves will drag away
I cannot write a word; they have all fled From me, Hortalus, and the muses too. My pain's a maelstrom, My thoughts batter through like stormy waves at sea. My brother's dead.
An eddy out of Hell's dark river caught his foot and tugged him. He was far from me by Troy's wrecked walls, Rhoeteum's promontory, dragged from our sight. I cannot bear the thought
I'll not see him again, yet love will last and memory will bring him back. I'll long to see him, and I'll mourn him in my song, as sad as Procne, haunted by her past,
who, nightingaled, sang for the much-loved son she killed, cooked, served her husband in a bun.
Meanwhile though, I must send you back your book I'm feeling guilty. All this meant I took
Ages to read Callimachus. My mind Was elsewhere but your verses brought me back, A good translation's something we all lack, that you have given us. In it I find
This tale of absent-mindedness. A boy Gives his sweetheart an apple that she hides inside her dress, and suddenly it slides from where she left it, when she jumps for joy
seeing her mum come home, but what a shame! the apple falls, she trips. Her mother knows she got it from the boy. A huge row blows up and forgetfulness is all to blame.
