I. Dante Alighieri

We crossed the river drunk, our voices true:
the bells along the Arno tolled too late.
Beneath old Mars, the broken spear still drew
our shadows thin across the river gate.
We entered Santa Croce’s broken skin,
where arches rose, unfinished in their frame.
We sang our cantos to the dark within,
and heard the rafters echo back our claim.
But then a word returned and took its hold;
the lantern thinned but would not rise to flame.
Beatrice, he sang; the nave unrolled,
and now the only echo was her name.
Past midnight, past the shallow scars
of commerce in the streets, I saw the bridge draw near.

Then judgment found my mouth and would not wait.
The city roared; the office sealed my ears.
I entered Guido’s name and ruled it fate
the moment law began to speak in years.
I wrote him smaller with each careful word,
pared flesh to risk, to rumor, to disease.
The pen grew clean. The sentence went unheard.
Sarzana opened like a wound laid bare.
I told myself the fever was not mine.
I told myself the body would endure.
I said the exile drew a necessary line,
and named that act restraint and cure.
Beatrice slipped beyond the rule I kept.
The seal took hold. I stood. The city slept.

II. Guido Cavalcanti

A fire burned beside the narrow bed; I slept,
my cloak beneath my head, the warrant kept.
The fever held; no draught could bring a cure.
Beneath my skull it pressed, each blackened line—
I lay awake, yet managed to endure.
The wax had cooled; the signet was not mine,
the band lay on the wood; the hand was bare.
No witness stood to counter what was heard.
Beyond my door were shouts and rumor—
I turned and would not shape a word.
The olive trees had thinned along the slope for years,
salt stiffened cloth and left its mark as fate.
The chapel bell rang out to empty ears;
the door remained unbarred; no need to wait.

I stood so close I felt your breath draw near,
the rim pressed hard and left a reddened scar.
You would not answer when I said your name.
The parchment lay between us, still unrolled;
you turned the signet slowly in the flame.
Your hand closed tight, the sanction in its hold
as wax ran thin then hardened into claim.
The window’s iron lattice cut within
a narrow band of light across the frame;
it marked your fist and lingered on the skin.
The courtyard door stood open near the gate,
a bell struck twice; the fading light withdrew
from stone and step. Too late.
The seal confirmed what had been chosen true.

III. Brunetto Latini

I taught you how to temper breath to word.
You learned too well how wax receives a seal.
Glory is a hunger dressed as name.
What you condemned, you also must endure.
Power does not vanish; it becomes a scar.
You chose your hour before the gate.