Like a god, he looks like to me, or, I’d say
more than god-like, he who can sit there, mirror-
like, across from where you are sitting. can sit 
                      watching you, hearing
 
your sweet laugh, your laugh which from me steals my own
senses!  From the very first instant, each time
that I see you, Clodia, nothing’s on the
                         tip of my tongue, stopped
 
numb, my language thick in my mouth, yet fire runs
fiercely through my body, my ears resound with
their own sound, my eyes are lit up with their own
                         dazzling darkness...
 
I blame all this poetry, it has brought me
down, it’s all this “being a poet.” I blame
art (not just mine) for all of history – yes,
                         that whole disaster!