Thy bed, a siren

Thy bed, a siren, beckons thee to rest thy weary head.
Her nocturnes wax so potent now, as daily strength is shed.

But pray! Heed not her silent songs, and still her wordless verse,
For though ‘twould seem that sleep be wise, her slumber is a curse.

Let not thine eyes falls down, my child, and keep thy mind from flight,
For soon the world, now twilight stained, shall wash in tides of night.

And once the spells of Moon and stars have found thy tranquil soul,
There is no might upon this earth that canst return control.

With wizardry and age-old charms the Moon shall work his will.
Thy tears shall melt and cloaks of dream shall warm thee with their chill.

On starry wings thou shall be led beyond the glassy sea,
To distant shores whereon fair Peace abides and waits for thee.

Then just, it seems, when is well, thy gloamy bliss shall wane,
For though the Moon claims power vast, the dawn shall be his bane.

When tyrant Sun, with trumpet blast, makes known his brutal rule,
Thou wilst be longing then, dear one, for shadow's soothing cool.

Thy mantle of serenity the savage light shall sear,
And like the ocean's wave, shall come the new day's pain and fear.

Then so thy heart shall curse the day and weep within thy husk,
Until at last they sky turns grey when Sun gives way to dusk.