The people labor in the day
as sirens dwell beneath the waves.
With humans’ toil and loathsome noise
the siren nothing more enjoys
than to remain apart and still
and daily drink their moonlit fill
and glide through waters cold and dark
and comb their hair as white and stark
as starlight on a dead man’s heart.
For sirens are quite deadly things
and hoard their spoils and pearly strings
and if you catch one in a glance
look quick away, do not advance
and do not listen to her voice
for soon you will not have a choice:
she will steal your heart and soul—
a siren’s song is death’s last knoll.
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