Am I not hewn of mud and blood like thee?
From soughing wet and fibrous matter wrought?
I quire as I dandle on your knee,
Like you are flesh and I am just a thought:
Am I a verse, a silly snatch of song?
Not then for eyes to glean or hands to hold?
Lest you who named me Siren named me wrong,
Called me a lure, a tale by sailors told,
When I am not the Other of my birth,
Nor myth nor rumour, quite pristine or soiled;
When I am moulded from the selfsame earth
As you and heir to all her selfsame toil.
Let Siren be her melody enfleshed,
Her grime and music well and truly meshed.

Penned by my hand on the 7th of Glacian, in the year 955 AF.