In the midst of my own youth
I waited for my ride,
And saw a little booth,
With firemen inside.
Into the passage I do fling,
And my eyes fall upon the thing
With pointy ears, tail, and eyes,
All saturated in red dyes.
A pitchfork flies at me, and boom!
All prophets spoke about this doom!
Is there eternity with God?
Celestial firemen don’t nod,
Because the damned and scorched fate
Has now closed the holy gate.
I glance at hell and there I spot
Myself in chains forever caught.
I shall not rot in the holy booth,
But instead escape in my own truth.
By Eliza Belogolovsky