He did not return, even after his death, to that ancient city he was rooted in. Going away, he did not pause for breath nor look back. My song is for him. Torches, night, a last embrace, fate, a wild howl, at his threshold. Out of hell he sent her his curse and in heaven could not forget her. But never in a penitential shirt did he walk with a lighted candle and barefoot through beloved Florence he could not betray, perfidious, base, and self-deserted.
Neppure dopo morto ritornò nella sua vecchia Firenze. Partendo non si volse indietro, ed io a lui canto questo canto. Fiaccole, notte, ultimo abbraccio, oltre la soglia, selvaggio il grido del destino. Le scagliò dall’ inferno il suo anatema, non la potè scordare in paradiso. Ma scalzo, in panni da penitente e cero acceso, non passò mai per la sua Firenze agognata, perfida, vile, attesa così a lungo.
