Look where she flies, fleet-footed Syrinx,
her chiton drenched, her sole bruised.
See the stalks that kiss her calves,
bend to embrace, then spring back:
green as the nymph, slender as she,
fragile flutes and ankle-bones.
She thinks to hide her in a reed;
but she has always been a reed,
always shown the promise of instruments.
She has been brittle; she has dreamed
of the god's hand to splinter her,
and craft of tatters, beauty and music;
awaits the lover of earthen nails
to put his mouth on her, his life's breath in her,
and make her broken body sing.