Charon sits, moored upon the shore,
No lantern pierces the fog.
A cold, penniless wake—
Not even a ripple on the bog.
The dark, still waters—
Serene. Indifferent.
They spare the destitute,
But not the morally indigent.
Ashes forgotten, sealed in the furnace,
Closed to the skies.
No breezes to catch, no currents to ride,
No fields to fertilize.
