They say wrong who say there
is no love in Hell.
If you have eyes to see, you
cannot avoid it. It is built
Into the very foundations of
the place,
Which would tumble in an
instant without love.
It stands on the street
corners, frozen and foolish,
So that you have to shove it
aside to pass.
It roars down the dim alleys
holding a shining knife,
So bright you blink as it
goes by.
Some nights beneath dead
stars’ indifferent light
You’ll hear it, padding
behind you.
You whirl, but see only
shadows.
In the squares of Hell are
many men, each intent
Upon fashioning his
damnation. A juggler,
As on most days, stands
behind his upturned hat.
Three balls at first,
yellow, green, white, and then
A fourth, light blue with
red speckles.
A fifth, a sixth, a twelfth
-- more than you can count.
Your damnation calls to you,
insistent, but you watch.
One ball shoots off and
bounces off your nose
Then back into the unending
circle.
Some one laughs; you find
that your damnation
Has wandered off, abandoning
you.
Of Heaven and Hell are we
the children.
Say you there was no love in
our making?
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