Sinking downward, a child’s raft. It
drifts from the surface to the grasping tendrils
in the underworld, in the river bed.
It opens and thirty siren-girls escape,
singing words so tragic and so kind.
The child sent them outwards, these thirty
drops of silver blood, crying melodies
not meant for human ears.
So they gurgle in E minor,
and ripples gather at the surface.
The children playing stop to listen,
start to shout their songs anew.
The end is not a bang or a sputter,
just a fading.
