There was no hope in the Inferno
And neither was there any future
The first glimpse of future comes in Purgatorio
Where a man says “I will sing”
The souls in the penitential land
Are not chained to the past
And, therefore, are not chained.
Faith looks to the future
All that is past will have its meaning
In what the future becomes.
Why, then, when I look
At the trees winter bare
And see the board steps
Nailed to the sycamore trunk
Do I think of childhood and youth
As some better land?
Not because the past was perfect
But because then there was no past
And looking forward then was all.