Beyond the valley
In a distant sunset never told
By man to man to be blood
Lies a silent dream which leaves
No mystery as to its wanderings.
Within it is a mirror, silvery
Cold and golden black, which
No one can see themself in.
That is because a mirror cannot
Reflect a soul, merely its housing.
And here in the bleeding valley
Only souls roam the grass and soil
That is made when children weep
As a sea of sorrows.

Somewhere through the mirror
Lives a different world. A world of
Life and hope and dreams and things
That are of life. But not beyond the mirror.
Beyond, all is cold but warm and
Light while dark; the moon shines down
And the sun never rises or sinks completely
But is always setting. So the dawn of life
Can never be born gain, but neither
Can death take its full power and
Allow wandering spirits to exist still but
Wander no more, having found a place.

In the valley there is screaming and
Sadness without pain and sensations
With no source to sense, no touch or sight
Or sound but a constant, gentle wailing.
Beyond the mirror they try vainly to peer,
For a moment seeing lost love before their
Eyeless souls, reaching out to touch and
Instead, pressing against unmoving and
Also unyielding but then ethereal glass.
They will go beyond the mirror, perhaps.
And will be trapped forever behind the sunset.