Heads turn, conversations pause when he steps in the hall.
Pluto drew the seventh circle at the time of his birth,
Left its signature snarl, or could it have been a curse?
The temperature rises, a rush of blood to the face, then it falls.
While he is patiently scanning the landscape of present souls,
Wondering which one will walk through the gates of Hell
And emerge on the other side free from the sweltering well,
Which one can step tenderly and barefoot on smouldering coals?
He walked the globe with that determination of a hunter,
Touching and smelling the filth and turning it into the gold
Of precious wisdom nuggets and plentiful coins; so bold
And dangerously serious he looks, no light-hearted bunter.
He doesn’t withhold the mysterious self, nor does he bestow.
His gifts are aplenty, to be shared with just the honoured few.
He will mightily scare your heart only if you are scared of you.
But the freedom of facing your own fear has an unusual glow.
As he stood there, what was going through his mind?
Through the painful journeys he gained worldly wisdom and grace.
Magnificent Plutonian inside and out, yet with no one to embrace,
Softly and silently loved by the sacred Union of another kind.