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, While in the glass, the Doctore is feared.
The commedia’s joke is fully known, When science turns to farce, and truth to lies, The Doctore stands, and watches, all alone.
No sun can warm the stone where he must stay, No wind can blow the dust from off his brow, Just endless night, and endless, cold disarray.
The mirrors show the man he never knew, A shadow of the god he thought he’d be, Trapped in the glass that he himself once threw.
The fame he sought is now his penalty, A cage of light that blinds and burns the sight, Where hubris pays the final, heavy fee.
And I, who watched this tragedy take flight, Turned from the scene to seek a clearer way, And left the tower to its eternal night.