Ever since I first watched Conclave (2024) I've been haunted by how Cicero and Tiro live as ghosts within the text. Inspired by the brilliant Conclave thoughts of @catilinas I made truly my most unhinged work of poetry: a translation of the Cicero/Tiro epigram from Pliny the Younger's Letter 7.4, composed using only words from Peter Straughan's Conclave script. Transcription with literal translations of the Italian and Latin phrases below:

When / I was / reading / [Italian: that "dead" language] / I found a transcript made of the text from the tape, / a passage underlined: it was a private conversation, / [Italian: a marvelous testimony], standing alone, apart. / Anyway, whatever it was, it can’t have been serious. [Italian: Without Rome, without the tradition of Rome...] / rumours can spread. A sinister thread of black smoke is rising from / the Quirinal Hill. He says, / with a faint stab of pain, / a stricken smile: [Latin: the abyss calls upon the abyss.] / He sinks to his knees, / knowing he is about to sin. A strange moment of connection. / The / crooked timber of humanity… Why would he say such a thing? / You don’t think he could have forged it? Let me speak from the heart for the moment. / My position is an embarrassment to me. / [Italian: Of course, but as a Roman myself...] Perhaps / the sounds of distant celebrations / would have been more palatable / in Latin, / like / a / veil of distant smoke.

What is Transcreation? Transcreation is the process of adapting content from one language and culture to another. This method is distinct from straightforward translation, which often only converts words. Transcreation ensures that the original message, tone, and intent are preserved. This process also guarantees cultural and emotional resonance with the target audience. The Importance of…

i.

Carefully placed strokes

Upon a white canvas,

I am slowly and shyly born into existence.

I see his pink cheeks

And shameful smiles,

It’s a man who wants but cannot do anything

But adore. From adoration

I grow -- more and more

And once i am done, I am met with all eyes

Of envy and jealousy.

True beauty.

But none as coveted and as vain as

The man of the portrait himself.

ii.

“Most magical of mirrors,”

I am coveted and unattainable.

The man whose eyes are

Supposed to resemble my own

Pierce me like they want my

Lead blood. I was only meant

As a gift. As a compliment.

He made me -- you -- so

Beautiful because that is how

He saw you. But instead of being

Flattered you boil in rage and

Jealousy. What is the purpose

Of art, other than to be art?

iii.

I grow more corrupt

As he does sinful.

Who would have known

That two men fighting

At each others breasts

For one’s affection

Could have led to all this.

I suppose he knows that there

Is more Vane in vanity --

But less in the eye

Of the beholder.

The only agency I have

Is to grow more and more

Upon the reflection of

Myself.

iv.

I am rotting.

And feel like i am covered in boils.

It’s not a matter of restoration, or

Growing old and musty with time, but

Instead I reek with the sins of my muse;

I’d rather be burned than suffer in this

State any longer.

If looks could kill,

He wanted mine,