Beneath the looming red giants,
Transparent silhouettes appear.
They coalesce, bewildered;
None linger long, fleeting.

My mortal eyes search
For the souls' egress,
But they cannot perceive it,
Though we all know it is there.

Even those souls traversing
Its threshold, choosing return,
Cannot recall the path through
The mossy black stone.

Perhaps the whispering relic
Holds another passage,
Where Life and Death converge,
And existence yields a new form.



Penned by my hand on the 14th of Miraman, in the year 950 AF.