Alas, accursed valley of the Arbia! It is said that after so many years
it still smells of death, that by night, deserted, haunted by wild
beasts, it resounds with the howls of the white witches. Was your heart
so hard, Messer Farinata, that it did not dissolve in tears when, on
that evil day, you saw the flower-clad slopes of La Malena drinking
Florentine blood?