Though every city shall he hunt her down, Until he shall driven her back to Hell, There from whence envy first did let her loose. - Dante Alighieri

No greater grief than to remember days
Of joy, when mis'ry is at hand.

those cries rose from among the twisted roots
through which the spirits of the damned were slinking
to hide from us. Therefore my Master said:
'If you break off a twig, what you will learn
will drive what you are thinking from your head.'

Puzzled, I raised my hand a bit and slowly
broke off a branchlet from an enormous thorn:
and the great trunk of it cried: 'Why do you break me?'

And after blood had darkened all the bowl
of the wound, it cried again: 'Why do you tear me?
Is there no pity left in any soul?

Men we were, and now we are changed to sticks;
well might your hand have been more merciful
were we no more than souls of lice and ticks.'

As a green branch with one end all aflame
will hiss and sputter sap out of the other
as the air escapes- so from that trunk there came

words and blood together, gout by gout.
Startled, I dropped the branch that I was holding
and stood transfixed by fear,...

And my Guide to me: “He will not wake again until the angel trumpet sounds the day on which the host shall come to judge all men. Then shall each soul before the seat of Mercy return to its sad grave and flesh and form to hear the edict of Eternity.