Like pained blood-spurts from maiden’s
Breasts, Kyrene’s harp-songs evoke rents
Of divine despair. She sings mournful muses,
Anguished love, as birds doth pluck velvety
Feathers to grace their hatchling’s nests.
Restless voices, woeful laments torment
A sailor’s heart and craze his senses wild.
By moonlit nights or morrow’s dawning
Light, they steer asunder unto death by
Crashing surf and penetrating rocks.
By legend, sirens are cursed by ancient gods,
Bird-maidens cast upon flowery isles of
Ishia and Capri. In constant anguish, they
Seek release from wrongful deeds, lyre-lost
Muses beset in angst-filled harmonies.
For she is Kyrene of Ishia, flawless in voice
And female form, existing in god-imposed
Abandonment on perilous windswept reefs.
By luring harp-song, she gathers chorus of
Winding wraiths to harken mariner’s grief.
Heed not Kyrene’s melodious songs for she
Is ever cursed, o’er looking uncharted deeps.
Resist her soulful strains, O! mariners, and
Maketh her prostrate, to perish by your hand,
Death’s release to dark, eternal sleep.