Ugolino dreams behind the heavy doors, his growing hunger
reverses to plenty, the doors— mercifully unlocked. What removes
currents, a voice reproves, firmly resists the flow of power,
Arno’s ebbing forces soon secured. The count wakes, and moves
shadowed on the floor before his weeping sons, between
verges of daylight, the narrow shafts on the walls,
searches beyond those inner corridors—where new hope precedes
below thoughts, where a shadow can overtake all miracles—
Pisa’s sudden forgiveness for Ugolino’s crimes, their freedom, then
coastal waters beyond his vision; where his family ingests
towers in perfect rows. Swallow, a voice summons them:
conceives to keep its hidden form. Take the youngest.
Total the bones tomorrow. Unfolding terrors reveal his heirs.
Power is this— unspoken schemes are always eaten first.