Lucretia, what agonies you suffered!
Lucretia, symbol, suffering that deed most abhorent to women!
I see a different Lucretia,
proud, tall, slender like a poplar, and those eyes -
My God, they pierced like fire!
All the village women,
watching your passing like the whirly-whirly,
thought your bosom would suckle the sons of kings ...
and your loins bear strong sons,
graceful daughters,
the strength of the people.
And the jealousy of the maidens!
Their fury, their impotence!
How they watched their chosen men
watching you ...
And what youthful warrior's eyes did not track your frame,
like a wolf hungry for the wary deer -
with what regret did they see your father,
that grim loving father,
strong like a stag in defense of his herd,
that patient mother, warm and loving.
The crowds on market day -
the shouts die in silence,
the sellers stop and stare -
and then resurge:
Lucretia the beautiful has come.
You shed grace before you
like sudden rain showers in spring.
Who could then have guessed
this sirocco now?
Did any rival regret
the star-lit shine
in your eyes that day?
Or on that star-lit night?
Only that now you had him -
Lucretius Tarquinius Collatinus!
Later, in the patches of quiet in wartime,
the competitiveness of cameraderie,
the waiting stillness before the enemy surrenders,
driven to their knees -
Partying at Ardea,
boasting about their women -
that drunken, foolish boast!
- your man nearly legless, stumbling over his words -
and that hasty, unexpected visit!
Those gracious words of yours,
spoken in surprise!
Clearly he must have forgotten something,
you thought,
opening the door yet again, much later.
Clearly he must've ...
unable, or unwilling to forget -
he was a relation, after all -
Sextus Tarquinius, sitting with you,
discussing smaller things in life until late.
When the chill of his sword woke you -
what did you think,
frozen in fear,
tied trembling by terror to your bed -
that
this is what Collatinus does,
taking a town?
That
this is a warrior's way
with the women of his enemies?
What agony filled your heart at that treachery?
What sickness of heart burnt out hope?
What hope was left you, what health?
Where was your proud courage?
What fire flamed inside you now,
burning wet and green,
chilling your being,
fogging up,
polluting all reason?
Until you had no joy left?
What joy was left for your friends?
For your man?
When, piercing them with your eyes,
you bound them to vengeance,
cutting your life
away from the fates' spindle,
away from life's warp and weave,
thrusting the dagger deep into your heart?
I have mourned for you,
Lucretia,
innocent victim,
betrayed by trust:
I have mourned for you.
The Republic has set
the world on your tomb,
a suppliant for forgiveness.
And are the kings ruling over Rome now?
Your death has had its purpose,
in the hands of your kinsmen ...
What has not been done?
But I have mourned for you, Lucretia -
so why do you conspire with Lesbia
and come nightly to haunt my nightmares?