The Siren

The Siren

It's the beginning, and there is silence. As if in a play a heavy veil of mist retreats into the waters and a large yellow lightbulb, fixed in the night sky, creates a spotlight over the sleeping world.
It's the beginning and yet the silence is giving way to a melody of echoes, so quiet they have to be imagined. When the clouds tinge with heavens and the starlight eats itself away, it's when the silence grows and beats, and the song begins.
And the song is beautiful, and a myriad of celestial eyes are fixed on the artist, poet without words, who needs words to sing the wordless, anyway? She merges out of the bluest in a liquid frenzy of droplets and notes, she is all gloss and cerulean, waiting for the lull of swinging grains of sand to mark her rhythm.
She sings.
And by God, how grand it is; she sings to the sky, to the air, she's legless but yet her ethereal score is giving her wings, and still she denies them, she' always rather stay on her rock... She'll sing her heart out, for the heart she once had and for the love she lost today, once upon an afternoon when the waves were mellow and her song was as sweet, when his skin was warm, when his lips were still red...But now blue, blue with death lies her love so deep, after a magnificent water burial, flower burial amongst gardens of sea anemones and pale corals, and her beloved ocean has celebrated a death her beloved beloved should have never deserved...
She sings to the night and entrusts that song to her last hope, her last home, her last bluest sight. And she is letting a desperate last minute fantasia eat her heart away, who will care anyway, the one who would have was swiped into an everdream. And she places whatever's left from her beauty in the moon, the sky, the feeling, the wind, the blue. Her eyes are closed, and gone, and a shooting star steals the last light.
And there is silence, but now, the siren is dead.