The sound of rain pattering against my brow,
Left me all at unease in the soft air.
The slimy fresh water dripping down my sparkling face,
Showed me no kindness in the waters of salt.
For I cannot any longer feel the refreshing cool of that water,
But only the grinding salt on my skin.
Here, in my oceans, I sing my chorus of old,
A ballad of the merfolk,
The song of Siren.
The beating of waves crashing upon sharp rocks,
Breaks the silent Night in my home.
The clean salted air brushes through my lungs,
And gives voice to my unsung songs.
The icy waters lap at my lips,
To carry the taste of salt to my bones.
Here, in the cold Night, I wail the tales untold,
A story of the ocean's victims,
The song of Siren.
Last are the quiet hours before the raging storm,
To beat upon windless sails.
Quiet we creep in the darkness to hide,
What coming song to sing of their soon demise.
To sing of dreams and fairies and tales told under the stars,
That entice the minds and hearts of all who hear.
Here, in the raging storm, I whisper my calm assurance,
A deep lust for sleep,
The Song of Siren.