Some journeys are meant to be made. The desire for love dictates it. Perhaps this is what he had in mind on a beautiful day in 1920, when the American poet William Carlos Williams composed the poem “Marco Antonio in the sky” (“A daughter in hell and other poems,” translated by Yiannis Zervas, ed. Printa).

The story is this: Mark, a relative and right hand of Julius Caesar, after the assassination of the latter, formed a triumvirate with Octavian and Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, who was supposed to rule Rome. Democracy has long since fallen. As is often the case with these collective leaders, things went wrong. Marcus married Octavian’s sister, but his passion went to Cleopatra. So much so that in addition to the three children they had together, he ordered her Asiatic conquests of Rome.

The anger of Octavian and the Roman people was fierce. War was inevitable, and, as you know, it was decided against Mark at Cape Aktio, at the entrance to the Gulf of Ambracia. Marcus fled to Alexandria. Octavian pursued him there. Everything was over. Two illegal lovers chose to commit suicide. The remaining passion was spent on two autograph gestures.

Marcus married Octavian’s sister, but his passion went to Cleopatra.

“Antony,” Williams now writes, “why did you follow / this beloved body / with your ships in Actia?” The poet, always referring to the self-destructive Roman leader in the sky, tests several hypotheses: “I hope that/ you knew her inch by inch/ from bent legs going up/ to the roots of her hair/ and down again and how/ you saw her/ over the heat of battle / – clouds, trees, grass.

A commander in love can discern the face, the body of his desire, “above the heat of battle”. This consecrated image within him is not enough to win the battle. His fate is defeat, and from there, perhaps thanks to her “slanting legs”, his ascension to heaven. Williams recalls Marco and his love for Cleopatra one quiet, clear morning: “How often in reflection / In grass and clouds and trees / He enters my north room / Touching the walls / With grass and clouds and trees.”

The question (Antonio, why did you go after your beloved body?) seemed to remain unanswered. However, the poet ends the poem with an answer that, perhaps, raises more questions (and these, it must be admitted, are the best answers, whatever the question is): “Why / do you hear in heaven.” Does he listen “in the sky” to the muttering of a poet from the future? Or the breath of a woman from the past? Let’s travel in the summer, thinking of a second opportunity.