“Guardaci ben!” (Look at me well!) –Beatrice to Dante, Purgatorio 30
I have a simple theory about the afterlife:
It will contain those who love you.
You arrive and look for your wife;
you look for those you loved—you
look with mad longing; are they here?
heaven and hell breathe similar air—
the one thing that makes it hell or heaven
will be the souls of your loves;
in the fainting, perfect light, who is there—?
now that there is no reason to be there.
“Oh God. Who are these people?
Bloody hell. I never liked these. They are strangers!
This one liked my nifty English accent. I amused them? No!
I hate them. I made them laugh from disdain.
This one was a good musician—but I hated him.
What are these people doing here?
Where’s my father? Please. Where’s my wife?”
This is the punishment of the afterlife:
People you knew will choose not to be
with you; strong means nothing; only affection—
Where’s my child? Where is she? Where is my son?
Didn’t I treat them somewhat well?
“OK, then. They are not here.” Harden into your lonely hell,
the serene punishment, you knew habitually, in life;
today you know it exceedingly well
and feel yourself as a beautiful individual—
the light, today, whimpering, falling off into darkness.