Superstitious

This is the underworld.
As I venture through Aeneas's pathway
he once cut so easily.
I can't see Elisium, but the souls
stretch on for miles in their lines
with their soundless shouts following me
and their gaping mouths haunting.
And I dream of a place where the fields
stretch on, and there is tawny sand
and the crowds hum like bees in a meadow
and the river yawns through with the blessed
water which brings on forgetfulness.
Where I can hide amongst the willow trees
And give no thought to Dido or Anchises