“J’ai perdu mon Eurydice …”
I have lost my Eurydice,
I have lost my lover,
and suddenly I am speaking French
and it seems to me I have never been in better voice;
it seems these songs
are songs of a high order.
And it seems one is somehow expected to apologize
for being an artist,
as though it were not entirely human to notice these fine points.
And who knows, perhaps the gods never spoke to me in Dis,
never singled me out,
perhaps it was all illusion.
O Eurydice, you who married me for my singing,
why do you turn on me, wanting human comfort?
Who knows what you’ll tell the furies
when you see them again.
Tell them I have lost my beloved;
I am completely alone now.
Tell them there is no music like this
without real grief.
In Dis, I sang to them; they will remember me.