The sound of water lapping the shore carries over to the far field.
There used to be a gateway here, where this world met the next. The tears of those left behind filled the valley. So a bridge was built, of willow wood. It was fragile, and only those possessed of a great knowledge could cross it, for they knew how to walk like angels.
But now, where once wise men walked and crossed to the far field, there are only remains. Floating in the lake of tears, the bridge is broken and alone.
Once there was a procession, all of souls given to wandering, and the bridge let them through to the other world. And they promised to come back, but one of their number was greater than the rest, and the other world thought to keep him. The weakest man, who walked last, fell through the bridge and drowned.
And the copse of willow trees burnt and died, and the people forgot how to walk like angels.
In the far field, all the procession watch this world and wait to return over the bridge of tears.
The image is by mjagiellicz of DeviantArt