LXXI

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,

Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit

   Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,

Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

LXVI

I sent my Soul through the Invisible,

Some letter of that After-life to spell:

   And by and by my Soul return’d to me,

And answer’d “I Myself am Heav’n and Hell:”

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But there are very rare occasions when the translation is so good it actually supersedes the original, taking it to a wider audience. If there is an argument for anyone having done that, it is probably Edward FitzGerald with his translation of “The Rubaiyat” of Omar Khayyam.

How can someone love me if I'm too broken?
If my scars are visible and ugly
If I keep too many secrets unspoken
And my heart is always unhappy

How can someone love me if I'm shattered?
I am a hard puzzle you can't ever solve
The pieces of me are scattered
And i am difficult to dissolve

How can someone love me if I don't even love myself?
If I'm the one who sends trouble
If I'm like an old book stock in a shelf
And a boring girl who doesn't go out from her bubble

So how can someone love me if I'm locked up in a cage
And too broken like a crumpled page.