Forethought

The snake hissed.

Staring fool! Gouge out thy eyes! Your madness, 'tis unbecoming!

“Such treachery of fools; do as is told and remain in your Hell eternal.”

Satan has spoken! Is there something you require, young Master of Snakes?
Sweet hatred born of love; do speak, dear child of Death, what is it that you want?

“Such beauty should not be marred by the sanity of saints; come hither, fool child, and take that which is forbidden.”

The snake hissed.

Prince of lies; where are your tears? Do they invisibly stain thy face?
Dost the blood on your hands remain after many washings?
Dost thou regret nothing?

Or shall nothing beget everything?