Moon‑Daughter of the River
O gather close, you river men,
and hear the tale I spin:
of Iara, born of moonlit drop,
where the deep tides pull you in.
For the river once was voiceless,
only foam and restless roar,
till the moon leaned low in pity
and let her silver fall to shore.
Oh the river keeps its secrets,
and the moon remembers all;
when Iara sings her drowning song,
even the fairest fall.
From that drop a shape was woven,
half shadow and half light,
a woman rising slow and silent
from the river’s ancient night.
Her hair was drifting waterweed,
her eyes the moon’s own gleam,
and her breath became the river’s voice,
a low, unending dream.
Oh the river keeps its secrets,
and the moon remembers all;
when Iara sings her drowning song,
even the bravest fall.
Now the Fisher King, all iron pride,
heard whispers of her grace;
he swore no spirit, witch, or wave
would stand before his face.
He dammed the river’s winding course,
he starved its living flow,
till storms rose up like wounded beasts
and laid his armies low.
Oh the river keeps its secrets,
and the moon remembers all;
when Iara sings her drowning song,
even the strongest fall.
The king strode down with spear in hand
and thunder in his tread:
“Come forth, you river singer,
I’ll silence you,” he said.
But Iara rose in sorrow,
not in anger, not in spite;
she sang a song of stillness
that unmade the king’s own might.
He stepped into the water
as though answering a call,
and the river closed above him
like a curtain’s final fall.
Oh the river keeps its secrets,
and the moon remembers all;
when Iara sings her drowning song,
even the noblest fall.
Since that night she walks the shallows
when the moon is full and round;
her voice a silver whisper
that can loosen any bound.
Some say she calls the weary,
some say she calls the proud,
but all agree her melody
can hush the world too loud.
For she does not lure for malice,
she reminds what lies below:
the quiet dark before our breath,
the peace we seldom know.
Oh the river keeps its secrets,
and the moon remembers all;
when Iara sings her drowning song,
even the commonest fall.
And when the moon is waning,
she sleeps in river stone;
when the moon is new and hidden,
she walks the depths alone.
Gathering names of drowned men,
she threads them through the stream,
so the river carries memory
like a long, unbroken dream.
Oh the river keeps its secrets,
and the moon remembers all;
and Iara, moon-born singer,
still waits for those who call.