To You, The Young

A strange little poem about dreams and fantasies.

Silence - Oh, how the mournful ring forth,

As the bells toll on, and on, and on, and

Look!  Do you not see heaven's light below?

For we all know that hell waits above.

Go now, down into the darker, cooler ground.

They have been waiting for you to

See that life is all but a fitful dream.

Hollower from guilt we all seem to be.

Dance along with the elder ones through the

Broken, ice-covered wood they were born in.

You, who was chosen, will find us there, where

The wilder, milder things will grow.

What you leave there, among the holy one,

Will test the wicked takes of our time.