Hate is the cask of the Danaïdes;
Vengeance, distraught, has red and brawny arms,
With which she hurls into her empty dark
Buckets of blood and tears from dead men's eyes.
Satan makes secret holes through which will fly
Out of these depths a thousand years of pain,
Though Hate will use her victims once again,
Resuscitating them to squeeze them dry.
Hate is a drunkard in a tavern's depths
Who feels a constant thirst, from drinking born,
That thrives and multiplies like Hydra's heads.
But happy drinkers know their conqueror,
And Hate is dealt a bitter fate, unable
Ever to fall asleep under the table.