The sea has no oranges, Seville no love.
Sunburned girl, give me a parasol to shelter
from your fiery eyes. You said pececillos
but I heard peccadillos—instead
of fish
in an orangeless sea, foibles
in a loveless city.
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Today, I took my first stab at translating Martial, a Roman poet who specialized in snarky epigrams, a sort of a 2nd century Daniel Tosh. Hi...
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