[Michelangelo Buonarotti, Qua si fa elmi di calici e spade, “Rime”, 16th century.]
Here they make helms and swords from chalices:
The blood of Christ is sold now by the quart.
Lances and shields are shaped from thorns and crosses,
Yet still Christ pours out pity from his heart.
But let him come no more into these streets
Since it would make his blood spurt to the stars:
In Rome they sell his flesh, and virtue waits
Helpless, while evil every entrance bars.
If ever I desired reward, oh now
All chance is gone.
My work has come to naught.
Medusa hides beneath that mantle there.
Heaven rewards poverty, but here below
What chance have we to find the good we sought
When men are false to the great signs they bear?
