There’s a great grey plain where lichen grows,
by the sun unkissed.
And amorphous beings unanswered call,
from out the mist.
Here lies no fear.
What use is fear,
to those beyond despair?
For even Tantalus had hope.
Prometheus yet may lose his rope,
But here’s no light, no hope to fight
the dullness of their care.

Where is this plain? that mile on mile
seems boundless to extend
where fungoid bog, ones footsteps clog.
Do you not know my friend?
Then stay in ignorance and let
that bridge of sighs remain uncrossed.
For past the point of no return,
there lies the kingdom of the lost.

H. St.V. Beechey July, 1953.