It was cold, at dawn,
as he rowed out,
And the mist lay heavy on his arms
They ached as they pulled him through the waves,
sliding over hidden pearls.
He rowed long and hard,
for as everyone knew,
The best fish come from deep sea
He lost himself in the soft, cold clouds
and the billows of the waves;
He found himself, when the clammy mist cleared,
far from land or haven.
But he cast out his line, without any fear
of what lay under the waves,
And he pulled in fish after fish after fish;
While a storm began to rage.
His hair whipped sharp in his eyes,
and the waves grew high and steep;
But he thought he heard the voice of an angel
whispering on the wind.
“Where do you row, Oh Fisher,
and why do you venture out
on a day that even the seagulls
are wary to wander about?”
He looked high above him,
but all that he saw there
were the enraged clouds, and glimpses of angry sky.
So he looked down, into the sea
and as he looked, slowly, his eyes grew wide.
For beside him floated a siren,
a maiden of scales and skin;
Her lips were painted scarlet,
and her gray eyes pulled him in.
She opened her mouth
–those red, red lips–
and a silken song poured out
The fisherman knew,
without a doubt,
That the siren had captured his heart.
And his rod slipped from his fingers,
and the net fell out of his hands;
So he fell into her gray eyes
and forsook his life on land.