Does it grieve you so much that I die? It grieves me also.
Manara, Rome, 1848
Ah! A hit, a wound, one abnormally sore
For this one smarts rather more
And you might find me a self-centred bore,
But see that blood, that vile gore?
That’s my life, spilling across the floor.
So I will never see sunrise, laugh with my whore;
You weep – so do I, the blackened door
Is ugly! Who is it for?
I don’t want to obey the ancient law,
I hate to die, though pain may gnaw
At my bleeding flank, open and raw.
Oh damn it, I die! To hell with me, and to hell with this war!
I found the quote a very long time ago while researching Verdi – it is from page 28 of Weaver and Chusid’s The Verdi Companion. As somebody with a weakness for dramatic final words, I found it rather entertaining – and apologise for any disrespect in writing a rather light-hearted poem. Anybody interested in the uprising in Rome in 1848, the year that all Europe rose in revolution, is advised to read further – it is fascinating, particularly the Roman Republic (Which lasted three months).
The Hapless Neo-Romantic