“The Silent Circle: A hidden realm in Dante’s Inferno, where the souls of those who remained silent in the face of injustice wander in eternal torment, their mouths sewn shut and throats bound by serpents.”
The Invocation
O Muse, who guided me through realms of flame,
Reveal a circle, lost to memory’s claim.
Where shadows tread and silent woe takes reign,
Sing now of torment veiled in subtle pain.
The Descent
Virgil and I traversed the path anew,
Descending deeper into Hell’s dark hue.
A hidden circle, cloaked in mist and dread,
Revealed itself where none before had tread.
“What woe is this?” I asked my guiding sage.
Virgil replied, his tone a tempered rage:
“Here lie the voices drowned by fear’s command,
The silent damned, bereft of word or stand.
The Silent Circle
This was the circle of the mute and meek,
Who feared to speak when truth they should bespeak.
In life, they saw injustice, foul and grave,
Yet held their tongues and let the darkness rave.
The air was thick, a murmur soft and low,
As souls walked aimless through a twilight glow.
No flames consumed them, yet their forms were pale,
And from their lips no cry could pierce the veil.
The Punishment
Each soul was bound by chains of spectral steel,
Their mouths sewn shut, their pain they could not reveal.
A serpent wound about each sinner’s throat,
As if to say, “Your silence you now promote.”
Some clutched their chests, as if their hearts might burst,
For silence was their blessing and their curse.
The truths they failed to utter now burned within,
Their cowardice the weight of their own sin.
A Meeting with a Silent Soul
Among the throng, a figure caught my gaze,
A soul that seemed to shine amidst the haze.
“Who is this spirit?” I implored my guide.
Virgil sighed deep and took me to his side.
“This was a scribe,” he said, “whose gift was great,
Yet never dared to challenge power or fate.
Their silence let the wicked spread their lies,
And now in shame eternal this soul cries.”
The figure looked at me with haunted eyes,
And though no sound emerged, I heard their sighs.
A story writ upon their anguished face,
Of words unspoken and of truth erased.
The Lesson
“O Poet,” Virgil said, “let this be clear:
The voice of truth must rise when falsehood’s near.
To turn away, to silence let prevail,
Is to consign the world to woeful tale.”
With that, we moved beyond this silent space,
Where justice lingered, yet without its grace.
And as we climbed toward circles yet untold,
I vowed my words would nevermore be cold.
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