Odysseus longed to hear their song,
the sirens on Anthemoessa’s shore.
Voices like honey drew sailors near,
yet ships were shattered on jagged stone,
and men were lost to the sea’s dark mouth.
Circe, wise in warning, spoke:
“Seal your sailors’ ears with wax,
bind yourself fast against the mast.
Only thus may you taste their song
and yet survive its fatal lure.”
So bound, he heard their haunting hymn,
a melody sweet as death’s embrace.
He cried for freedom, begged release,
but his men, deaf to his pleas, rowed on.
Only when the island lay behind
did they untie their captain’s bonds.
And still the sirens sing today—
not on rocks, but in our streets.
They wear familiar human forms,
male and female, smiling, kind.
They whisper promises of delight,
yet lead the innocent to ruin.
They offer wine, the needle’s sting,
the glitter of dice, the haze of smoke.
They cloak their snares in friendly words,
until the heart is chained in vice.
To resist, we need strong hands:
mentors, friends, and guiding lights,
a family’s love, a compass true,
to steer us clear of treacherous seas.
For when they see we will not bend,
the sirens turn and drift away.
But still the world is full of song,
temptations echo on every shore.
Blessed are those who navigate
without wreckage, without despair.
