Neso was not yet on the opposite shore
When we enter the thick forest
Nor the smallest boundary was drawn

agitating twisted branches
Its fruits were thorns and poison
Black are its leaves
They were men
They are sad plants now
Crying voices everywhere

When a soul
is dislodged from the body
That by own effort loose
sinks in the seventh circle…of hell

She falls between the scrubs
for become a tree
The harpies build there their nests
Eating from its leaves
Causing pain
And dragged by us up here
Centaurs run around
Armeds with arrows
And to every soul that tries to rise
Will be overwhelmed by blood

Of that plant comes along with the blood, the voice
The dead face

When a soul
is dislodged from the body
That by own effort loose
sinks in the seventh circle…of hell

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