Sylvia and the Lorelei
Kevin Densley
Sylvia walks a narrow path
through a forest of tall trees,
drawn by voices calling her
from the fathomless depths
of the freezing river,
the voices of maidens
with long, flowing,
marble-heavy hair.
Pinned to the sky
is a Gothic moon,
which Sylvia barely notices
as, entranced by the voices,
she advances;
a voluptuous virgin chorus
is calling her,
calling her,
calling to her
as they rise through the twilit deep.
She’s a slave to their siren song
as they sing
that this is a night to drown in.