I will not go with the ferryman,
Into the endless night,
Nor touch the dust grey shores,
Where shades linger grieving.
I will not listen to the clinking of silver,
And the whispering of the dead,
Rattling the brown reeds, rustling the fallen leaves.
I will turn my back on the water-dripping oars,
On the oil black river,
The silence and the dull dark sky.
Before my eyes, the horizon glows,
With the promise of the rising sun,
And in the night, the sky glitters,
With the light of a million stars.
I turn my back on death, my face to the light,