By espacioreal | elespacioreal | 10 May 2021

That Italy is your homeland, you tell me
That there the hills of Lazio await you
Olive fields
The mirrored shores of the Tyrrhenian
You say, Aeneas, that in the ships
You have to take your lares
To build them tabernacles in Italy
And raise prayers
And offer sacrifices
That you have to finish this way, my beautiful
The circle of your race
And a child will be born of your blood
In the land of your ancestors
Is it you, Aeneas, who says it
Or is it that poet laureate
He who consecrates us to a future empire
In a language that we both do not know?
It must be from this eloquent official
The dialectic that inspires yours
Shut up now
The gods have made you wise
And you refuse, therefore, to waste your words
You know well, my beautiful one, that I could not believe you
Could the imperial poet
The one that the homeland will feel like solid ground
Like the expansive center of an irrevocable conquest
That encompasses offspring and ancestors
He has to be pleased with your double devotion to citizenship
Your obedience to gods and the dead must satisfy him
He, my beautiful one, will never know you
He will not receive you in your anxiety
He does not have to watch over your restless sleep
He will not know of the feverish visions that assail him
It was me, my ungrateful, who offered you a palace
When the waves deprived you of your kingly bearing
If the bonfires of Ilión returned to your dream
I was the one who tried to dispel them
I, and not the illustrious mantuo, guessed in your arms the fatigue of the oars
And I gave you my bedroom to rest
No matter that you infused your brackish essence
That oceanic sadness that your clothes and hair breathe
I was the one who held you tight
Although in your embrace I sensed the stupor of shipwrecks
And in your moans the inexhaustible complaint of the sea
I, Dido, and not the famous Lombard
I opened myself to the rigors of your exile
And I saw in them an inverted mirror of my luck
What are the barren seas that you sailed
But wet brothers from my deserts?
And that's why my beautiful
For having felt the extent and depth of your sorrow
That i can't believe you
How to consent that it is your homeland
An unknown region
Where a hundred hostile tribes await you?
How to admit, now that a land shelters you
That you resume the torture of the sea and of war
By the inscrutable design of the gods?
I find nothing but folly in your obedience
Is a homeland designated?
What do the gods of the homeland know?
They exist without constraints
Oblivious to time and its vexations
What should the limit of a floor show them?
It was given to them
Soar skies and countries
And adopt other voices and other skins
To be a child
Old man
Become bull
You must know, Aeneas
That the homeland is the domain of men
What is the homeland but a staff
Where to support old age
And the pain of being one
And to get lost?

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