My hands have toiled eighty-nine years
for a world that both applauded and scorned.
David, a cold symbol of my love for Florence,
is now an effigy for a lost republic.
I live miserable, alone like a wasp
caught in a bag of bones.
Silence is a blessing, that comes
while the world sleeps.
I lie awake, waiting for the spider
who moves in after the glory
to chain up the windows
and doors of my soul.
Un figlio di firenze ero nato,
un uomo del mondo morirò
for I have long lived in Hell
and painted its pictures.