The oar cut the waters of the Styx,
Upon the wailing souls, my eyes transfix,
Too weary of lamenting their deeds,
And yearning for their prayer beads.
Gloomier than the darkest of nights,
Was the cowl over his head,
An obolus was all he desired,
For a passage into the world, ahead.
Upon the dismal shore of Acheron,
The damned souls were moaning,
Denied a sound inhumation,
Charon rowed on, demeaning, condoning.
A nightmare ’twas, masked in repent,
Apollo’s grief and Aurora’s lament,
Disconsolate was the voice which spoke,
For I heard the word of Charon,
That which lay in the labyrinths, I did invoke.
