Canto The Eighth Circle
Midway within the fog of modern days, I found a soul who wore a mask of white, The Doctore, clad in robes of sterile gray. He sought the limelight’s harsh and blinding light, A figure of the commedia stage, Who spoke of truth to win the public’s bite. Now in the city, where the smog is cage, And tax records disclose the name he hides, He walks a path of his own making wage. No pardon saves the soul where hubris rides, Though law may grant a shield to hide the face, The mirror shows the man where pride abides. He pleaded fifth, a strange and hollow grace, While in the Inferno of his own design, The Doctore seeks to win a losing race. The spotlight burns the mask that once was fine, Revealing cracks beneath the painted skin, Where hubris paid the final, heavy line. No prayer can wash the stain that he is in, For though the state may say the debt is cleared, The hell of self is where the soul must spin. The crowd below, who once the man revered, Now laugh at Zanni playing at the throne, W...