Lady Deidre crawls empty on the floor,
Turned her back away,
Away from the moon, sun and stars.
She's headed deep down into the earth,
The howling void of darkness
Never again to bathe herself in their glow.
But her mind is made up, no longer will she endure
Her own flowing wilderness of anguish and horrors.
She hold her head high, with hope to forget and
Destroy the psycho-pseumatic roots sustaining the
Painful thorny stems and offshoots.
With blinding obstinacy, The gates are reached.
Poor Deidre looks but does not see.

Many and varied sinners suffer eternally here
in the Cocytus, an amphitheater-shaped pit of despair
Wholly of stone and of an iron color:
Those guilty of fraudulence and malice;
the seducers and pimps,
who are whipped by horned demons; the hypocrites,
who struggle to walk in lead-lined cloaks;
the barraters, who are ducked in boiling pitch by the
Malebranche.
The simonists, wedged into stone holes,
and whose feet are licked by flames,
kick and writhe desperately. The magicians,
diviners, fortune tellers, and panderers are all here,
as are the thieves. Some wallow in human excrement.
Serpents writhe and wrap around men,
sometimes fusing into each other. Bodies are torn apart.
Only too late had she placed her hands over her ears
because of the lamentations of the sinners here,
who are afflicted with scabs like leprosy,
and lay sick on the ground. Here is her eternity,
made to furiously scratch her skin off with her delicate
nails.

The gate has been sealed off to her for many eternities
Unfastening only to close again and crush her hopes.
Her future lay in her memory,
memory of those she turned her back on,
those unsympathetic to her despair.
She even longed for her notional wilderness as it once
Was, for now it drowns her in its dark words of anguish,
Torture, terror and despair. She reaches
her worn and battered hands up, through the dirt, up to the
surface.
Mimicking her mind, her fingers growing flowers in the
shape of stars, fruits to imitate the shape and color
of the moon and sun, and rooted thorny plants to mock her
psycho-pseumatic wilderness.  
Even the horrors she's endured bleeds unto the
actions of mankind. And her tragedy very well continues to
this day.
The sun moon and stars  take turns each day to ridicule
her,
feeding the roots of her fingertips. And even the noble
man,
demolishing her existence. And Deidre,
Mother nature, will continue to weep until she is no more
And her nightmare ends...