Through me is the way to the city of woe.
Through me is the way to sorrow eternal.
Through me is the way to the lost below.
Justice moved my architect supernal. I was constructed by divine power, supreme wisdom, and love primordial.
Before me no things were, save those eternal, and eternal I abide.
Abandon all hope, ye who enter here.
I wondered if such words weren't perhaps engraved somewhere. At this juncture normalcy had already deserted me.
Crossing over the dry moat on a stone bridge, I came to a tower. It was of stone construction in the shape of oil drums, one rising up on either side like gateposts fore a giant's lair. Passing beneath the connecting structure, I gained the other side. This was the Middle Tower. A little further on, on the left-hand side, rose the Bell Tower. When they saw the enemy approaching from the distance, his iron shields and steel helmets swarming over the plains like the shimmer of autumn heat, they rang the bells atop this tower. When a prisoner, on a star-black night, evaded the view of sentries on the ramparts and slipped from their downcast torch shadows to disappear into the darkness, they rang the bells atop this tower. When high-minded citizenry, unhappy with the governance of their ruler, marched on the tower and clamored loudly at its base, then too they rang the bells atop this tower. The tower bells rang for any and all occasion. At times they rang out earnestly, and at times they rang out intently. A forebear came and met his death - the bells rang. A holy man came and met his death - the bells rang. Where now are those bells that sounded so often, that sounded on frosty mornings, on snowy evenings, on rain-soaked days, on blustery nights? I lift my gaze to the ancient tower, forlorn now and ivy-encased, where a hundred years' ringing is held in suspense.