Dreams of the Shaman:


The siren of the soul::


To the ships who pass her by, the siren sings, a wretched wail that drives a man insane.

As desires are dash upon the rocks, they feel no pain. Poor is the mind of him to who the siren

wails. With sly mirth and misadventure she applies herself well, to sing a song with melody all

wrong.

I sat and listened to the gale blow, thinking of her and what she had done to my mind, so sweet

her song that set a fire my pride, she who sings a song with a melody all wrong.

I call her an orchid upon the mud, oh how low you must be I would say to her! Her witty reply

was only a sigh as the ships pass her by.

Her whisper was a sound that resounds upon this soul that was bound by this siren cry.

A rhapsody of disgrace she played to me, this slave which she had made, who lone to lay with

her at night.
A heavy heart, a fool's heart, to him whom the siren sings at dark.

Be it my fate to die a martyr of love? Dashed upon the rocks.

Her masquerade she pull so well, to this poor soul she would sing to hell.

With melodies all wrong, she sings her song, to souls afar from home.

As I stood to stare, could I not be like the white fleecy clouds hanging in the air? So light of

heart I would be. I plead to her, I cry that my mind and should be set free, I look deed inside to

find that the shadows of my soul was somewhere else, and yet she sing a song with melody all

wrong.

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