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Now I must turn
strange torments into verse to form the matter of the 20th canto of
the first chant, the one about the damned. Already I was where I
could look down into the depths of the ditch; I saw its floor was
wet with anguished tears shed by the sinners, and I saw people in
the valley's circle, silent, weeping, walking at a litany pace the
way processions push along in our world. And when my gaze moved down
below their faces, I saw all were incredibly distorted, the chin was
not above the chest, the neck was twisted- their faces looked down
on their backs; they had to move ahead by moving backward, for they
never saw what was ahead of them. Perhaps there was a case of
someone once in a palsy fit becoming so distorted, but none that I
know of! I doubt there could be! So may God grant you, Reader,
benefit from reading my poem, just ask yourself how I could keep my
eyes dry when, close by, I saw our human form so twisted-the tears
their eyes were shedding streamed down to wet their buttocks at the
cleft. |
