"With respect to Being, the poet is speechless."

When enchanted I was drawn into unknown tombs,
and my bones flew toward flights that had occured
centuries ago. Was this a new beginning, or an old
roundtrip?

Boards protesting as the ice slowly gripped and
forced them apart; lamps flickering with the fear
of endless darkness, and diseases leaking from
unwashed, undernourished bodies.

But they had heard the distant Sirens'
Song, "foreign to man, and very low,"

Further back, sailing for decades the blue Aegean
Sea lapped at a small wooden craft of sailors tired
from ten years of hacking at attacking bodies then

rowing to where their half-god half-crazied captain
who had himself lashed to a post laughs and cries
from voices only he can hear.