(After Catullus #7)
You ask how many kisses, Claudia,
will be enough. There are not enough
sands, Claudia, in all of Libya,
in all Cyrene, where the great herb
bears its heart-shaped seeds.
There are not enough stars, Claudia
on frozen nights that watch
the stolen lives of men.
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A loose translation, really an exercise ... the original with a pretty literal translation can be found here.
My heart does not seem ready to be really vulnerable to poetry of my own. That poetry wants to be about Wendy. Too soon. But I do long to write. The world doesn't need another Catullus translation, but perhaps I do.
There are not enough . . .