The silver crescent floats high above the world, 
as a beacon of light,
so that the dead may wander,
to a land only remembered by lullabye.
Where all is seen in shades of grey,
for nothing's ever black and white,
and the morning dew-birds do sing,
their mystical song for all.
This place is just a playground,
for those young and for those old;
the silver arch in the sky is but their magic slide,
to forget the world and worries.
These souls have approached ghostly;
figures you barely see.
But those who have not yet heard the lullabye,
float aimlessly around as a hopeless comet,
never to enter,
behind the sky.