ghost-like, the song of syrinx,
seven hollow reeds plucked
to make a flute, a star-wish
where the dark waters ride,
(the horned god laughs and plays),
shrunk to a dusk, the river mute,
her voice trickles over stone
and leaf, branches reflected, pools and
caves where otters breathe, where
drinks the evening dew -
her voice fades like a star as pan
awakes, his pipe brushes her lips,
sings of the infinity of night of
a moon white-layered like stone,
dancing like a woodland breeze.