Paradise of the Dead

Early evening's

heavy mist

rolls in

at the crossroads

gateway from

the land of the living

to the nihility

of the dead.

Oh, lucky shade

With the obol

under your tongue,

one sixth of a drachma.

For this paltry fee,

Charon the Ferryman

Will carry thee

across the river Styx;

Drop Ye by the river Lethe

For a refreshing drink

Of sweet oblivious amnesia

To cool and soothe thy brow.

Ye, who died a hero's death,

Travel on to Elysian Fields

With all the blessings

Of the Gods and Goddesses.

Finding truth in the mist

Of the myths of long ago...