Our life is made by the death of others
I never learnt how to live, but only
How to die, I remember very little of Anchiano
But my memories of Vinci are clearer,
Such as my father, Piero and my
Mother, the peasant Catarina
And the small church there.
Florence was my artistic centre
And I began to experiment my ability
My similarity to Verrocchio could be seen yet I tried
To stand out on my own
Many were left unfinished, since the hand was unable
To achieve what my mind conceived
Difficulties so subtle and so marvelous
That they could never be expressed by the hands
Be they ever so excellent.
I was a vegetarian living like a meager fish,
Above the water the challenge was active
My courage lay in Salai,
For the world, a sarcastic, mischievous thief, for me,
My Little Devil
Half my vineyard in my will was how much I loved him
Cloux took my last breath, I smiled
When sixty beggars followed me, rewarding my end
My vision of mechanical flight apparently never included
Fixed wings with propellers or jet engines.
My inspiration were birds, reflected in
Drawings of a flying machine
Fashioned to stay aloft by flapping its wings.
That’s how different the world would be.