It is the end of the world, as we know it — it is time to cross the Styx. We have many obols, but we have no tongue. The ferryman — a possessive old man — cannot find his oar. The boat is gone as well, it rests ashore, broken. We all feel that we must get across to the other side. The City of Dis is there — perhaps it will be our rescue? But how? What for? Perhaps we shall stay right where we are?
We must get over there. We have already drunk too much water from the river of sadness. Soon, there will be no room for us here. The boat is the key, but the angel has not sent the instrument. We are left alone, with no faith. The sages suggest boats made of stone. Let us listen to them. We have nothing to lose. In the end, they brought us here, to the shore. The crossing may be possible. From now on, our time will be counted down by floating white poplar leaves.