The River of Souls flows to the other side, wrapped in the land's night,
Broad, slow, an eternal and silent sight.
It belongs to all in this world that has life,
All of which flows downstream, converging as one.

The master of the nether realm, Thanatos,
Enshrouds themself and the souls within the Moon Cocoon.

The dragon, born from the cocoon, carries a girl,
soaring upstream the River of Souls, defying its eternal flow.

Their connection flows tighter than blood,
And the key that opens the netherworld's gates,
Is the sister's selfish plight.

Back then, the boreal winds cut through to the bone.
Back then, death was a bitter and stabbing fright.

In the nether realm without an earth or sky,
A flower named Antila blooms,
its beauty witnessed by but one soul.

“You are the quiet in my heart amidst the chaotic choreography.”
The younger sister scores through the blooming Antila fields,
Never finding that promised dark blue sprig.

She silently made up her mind.
“Death. Leave all your dark nights to me,
And save the dawns for her.”

The younger sister gazes at the Moon Cocoon high above,
And plans a trip to the mortal realm, a distant flurry.

A bard once sung to musical notes:

“Do not turn back. O do not turn back.
The long hand of shadow will retain the dead behind their gates.”

The giant dragon born from the Moon Cocoon
Willingly offered itself as the enduring barge of the River of Souls.

“No need to turn back. Oh, no need to turn back.
That price had long been paid for you by someone else.”^[1]

The dragon lowers its long neck,
And places the girl on its back.
In slumber, she will unknowingly greet
The dawn of her rebirth.

The dragon flaps its wings,
In the chilly gloom of the floating dead, upstream.

Ferrying from purity into grime,
Going from silence into roaring boom.

The souls of countless poets flounder past,
Their distant rhymes endless like foams:

“Do not turn back.
For to look toward the land of mortals, is in itself turning back.”

In this pale dawn,
The sun's first rays light the night ablaze.
So the dragon crosses the Sea of Souls,
Onto the shores of life, and strands itself in the gleam.

We know not where
These stories arise.
They are scattered across the shallows with the waves.

The confession the girl made before her departure,
Still echoes in the tides' heaves.

“If there is anything for me to leave behind,
May it find a soul to remember.

This is the ode of my life,
And I've already penned my last stroke.”