The Siren's Song

Amidst the mountain wind, the little white house stands oddly docile.

Its grandiose humility shouts thundering among the unified march of the valley.

Against the demanding murmurs, it responds with silent retreat.

Against the poignant questions, it raises its armor and shields under the glazing barriers.

Within the reigning distance, there is no chanting voices, nor troublesome chores.

A bleak silence is echoing through the suffocating alleys.

There is no reward nor dreams,

just the brisk pace of the ceaseless river.

The walls inside the house are dressed with the proud reminiscent of your forgotten past. The ceilings are decorated with golden glitter and grey-black ashes mixed together in an everlasting bond. When the myriad followers are calling your name do not turn your back. The siren's song do not deny to listen.

Let it flow into you and fill your lofty heart with its paradisiac sound. Let it transpire in your veins and enslave you into its rigorous might. And when the melody stops amidst the hazy dance do not try to cover from its malevolent fists. The burning balls will thrust into your house smashing its unsuspected foundation in to a thousand pieces. The rigorous fire will sparse and burn the upright shelter and demolish it with its ferocious arrogance. And as the ferocious rain befalls upon you do not try to run. Surrender in its will as it leads you in the eternal underworld. Because as you die, through your ashes, you will get reborn.