What a song the world heard that day
From the winged angels of above.
And they stood yonder,
At the melody
that floated from the lips of finned sirens below,
Caressing the boy with the utmost care,
who was conceived of anything but love.
He was a prodigy
But they called him the prodigal son.
Would go on his boat, distributing light,
Until his life was left with none.
And while the world was busy covering black sheep with strokes of white
The rebel child of the earth rose, under the watchful kohl-smeared eyes of night.
With a promise of making men shiver at the single twist of his vare,
Tainting the world with the hue of its own corpuscles
– Such was an oath sworn by the asperous Sinclair.