No goods nor gold can cross the Styx
The boat is small, by water crushed
The boatman’s ready with his hand
He has no use for such dry land
The woman wrapped in winter clothes
Hindered by the mist that rose
She weeps, she leaves her home and man
The dark mind showed her where to come
Her husband stood beside her bones
In his loss, he softly groaned
He wept and wept and did not eat
His world entranced by ice and sleet
Nothing’s quite as sad a sight
As old men crying in the dark
