The River

In my dream I approach it through a nightmarish gate Upon which are words that tell of the fate Of all who pass through, but in the morn when I wake, I can’t remember, can’t remember those words when I wake. In the dream I continue on down a steep hill. The sky it is boiling; the air silent and still. And I see far below me a vast misty plain, And the River lies on it like a great crimson stain. I enter the mist and become aware it consists Of the ghostly shadows of women and men, And I know in the dream that these souls in distress Are condemned to remain here till Time itself ends. I pass through this mist and come to the bank. The River is turbid and murky and rank. I see under its surface more of these souls Drowned (but not drowned) in their attempts to escape. I see the dread boatman approaching this shore, Crossing the water, pulling his oar. His boat stops before me, his dead eyes stare; He puts out his hand and waits for the fare, The fare to cross over and escape from this plain Else on this bank I'll forever remain. I search in my pockets but no coin do I find. The boatman moves off and I stay behind.