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?