Limbo, land of sorrow; land of weeping,
Where Tantalus is patron,
Where fields of gray and ashen white
Are cloaked in fog and encroaching mist.
A metallic pool, freshly sprung from Lethe's fountain,
Reflects a single, dying tree, struggling to maintain a grasp
On its few-remaining leaves.
The pool stands, glass-like;
Glittering sadly beneath the light
Of some unknown, blue-gray star hanging coldly
In the lofty rafters of Hell, its true fire long been snuffed
By the ever-rising haze that clings to the air
Just as we souls desperately cling to memories
Of that which we were.
We are not conscious souls here;
Our deaths have long ago left us
Listless, lone, but lingering shadows
Of the beings we once were.
Now we are but murky mementos:
A reminiscent trace of a life that seemed,
At the time, to be an insubstantial mist
That-even as it fades from thought-
Becomes all the lovelier in memory.
Love, joy, sunlight-tossed by Man's folly
Into pools of forgetfulness, where they remain floating,
Floating just beyond our fingertips,
Just beyond the fog...
The stale water is flecked with November leaves,
And bears a freezing sense of loss.
After we have tasted Death's bitter wine,
After we have sampled his dusty table's
Fermented feast of empty promises,
He flings us, apterous, into this smoggy trance of tears.
Some, in life, had wanted death;
Now, in death, we long for life;
Thus we see that we are worms,
Writhing in a mire of perversity.
Death is the destiny of Man, the damned race,
Ignorance the bloody suicide-knife
Dripping in his trembling hand.
They say that Limbo is a place of mercy,
Where those who neither pleased nor angered the gods
Were destined to spend eternity wandering
Without meaning, without emotion, without life.
But we, the shades of Limbo, object to this observation.
We lie lonely and forgotten, our damnation being
The regret in our own hearts.
Where Tantalus is patron,
Where fields of gray and ashen white
Are cloaked in fog and encroaching mist.
A metallic pool, freshly sprung from Lethe's fountain,
Reflects a single, dying tree, struggling to maintain a grasp
On its few-remaining leaves.
The pool stands, glass-like;
Glittering sadly beneath the light
Of some unknown, blue-gray star hanging coldly
In the lofty rafters of Hell, its true fire long been snuffed
By the ever-rising haze that clings to the air
Just as we souls desperately cling to memories
Of that which we were.
We are not conscious souls here;
Our deaths have long ago left us
Listless, lone, but lingering shadows
Of the beings we once were.
Now we are but murky mementos:
A reminiscent trace of a life that seemed,
At the time, to be an insubstantial mist
That-even as it fades from thought-
Becomes all the lovelier in memory.
Love, joy, sunlight-tossed by Man's folly
Into pools of forgetfulness, where they remain floating,
Floating just beyond our fingertips,
Just beyond the fog...
The stale water is flecked with November leaves,
And bears a freezing sense of loss.
After we have tasted Death's bitter wine,
After we have sampled his dusty table's
Fermented feast of empty promises,
He flings us, apterous, into this smoggy trance of tears.
Some, in life, had wanted death;
Now, in death, we long for life;
Thus we see that we are worms,
Writhing in a mire of perversity.
Death is the destiny of Man, the damned race,
Ignorance the bloody suicide-knife
Dripping in his trembling hand.
They say that Limbo is a place of mercy,
Where those who neither pleased nor angered the gods
Were destined to spend eternity wandering
Without meaning, without emotion, without life.
But we, the shades of Limbo, object to this observation.
We lie lonely and forgotten, our damnation being
The regret in our own hearts.