Orlando furioso, in your name I dare not raise a violent hand in jest; I’ve learned too well that pain is not a game. If I’ll be guided by a candle’s flame, Its light compassion, you’re a shroud, darkness. Orlando furioso, in your name And mine, on your behalf, I’ll carry shame; I’ll chant a eulogy some might attest I’ve learned too well. That pain is not a game For two, for any number. What's to blame? What burned away your wits? What was your test, Orlando furioso? In your name I can’t duck out, no hiding where I came From, where I’ll die before I go. I’m blessed I’ve learned too well that pain is not a game, Far more a lineage I’d hate to claim, A leaving I’ll revile within my breast, Orlando furioso! In your name I’ve learned too well that pain is not a game.
The trouble I face as a formalist is this: where form seems archaic, where my language seems archaic, where these things intersect, there lies a magical gateway to sounding inauthentic.