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Amidst the arms, war, fire, fury and rage
which have the haughty Frenchman so oppressed, and when the air is most confused and thick, there by love's fiercest fires am I enclosed. I look up at the sky, the trees, the flowers, and in them find my suffering expressed; for on the coldest, most inclement day sprout fresh and turn to green again my woes. I say aloud, in tears: "Oh springtime sweet, when will it be that I might see my hope, all green, some real peace in my soul inspire?" But I fear that my cruel fate my death will mandate when I'm so far from my love, Amidst the war, rage, fury, arms, and fire. Gutierre de Cetina (1519-1554) ©David Hildner, 2000 |
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