Lorelei
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It is no night to drown in. A full moon shines brightly above, and the river lapses gently. The water is black beneath the bland mirror-sheen, as if hiding some unknown secrets. The blue water-mists are dropping continuously, scrim after scrim like fishnets. Even though the fishermen are sleeping soundly, these mists seem to be weaving a mysterious pattern. The massive castle turrets are doubling themselves in the glassy water, creating a scene of all stillness. However, these shapes start to float up toward the speaker, troubling the face of quiet. From the nadir, they rise, their limbs ponderous with richness. Their hair is heavier than sculptured marble, and they begin to sing. Their song is about a world that is more full and clear than what can be imagined. Sisters, your song bears a burden that is too weighty for the whorled ear's listening. Here, in a well-steered country, under a balanced ruler, their harmony deranges beyond the mundane order. Their voices lay siege, lodging on the pitched reefs of nightmare, promising sure harborage. By day, they descant from the borders of hebetude and from the ledge of high windows. But worse than their maddening song is their silence. At the source of their ice-hearted calling lies the drunkenness of the great depths. O river, the speaker sees those great goddesses of peace drifting deep in your flux of silver. Stone, stone, ferry the speaker down there.