To Mantua and wept on Virgil's grave
A man he wished to, years too late to, save,
Longed for a saviour child, knew not his name.
'We have no hope, our comfort is desire.'
The poet spoke to poet. Limbo state
Eternity yet ticking off each date
Who know not bliss but have been saved the fire.
Dante knew Virgil. Loved. But with regret
Faith told him it was somehow not unfair
Pagans be damned yet have no pain or care.
We ditch all these concerns. And Pascal's bet.
Still care for all the wrongness of the dead
Compassion, doubt, both whisper in my head.