Sing to me, oh Muse
of a child so cherished
in her world set to perish,
Hades’ eyes dark and bruised.
He watches, weeping,
ignoring the man
who stands still on black sand,
her eyes closed, sleeping.
Iron tears from a lyre sung —
a lonely breath
a time to come —
shed for her, who has lost her sun.
Her skin stays warm
in her mother’s cooling sheets.
This last time she feels her heat,
with tomorrow’s wake, forlorn.
Greeted by Charon,
he cannot look her way —
for the tears of Hades’ dismay.
Wait for the horizon to be drawn
to tell in hues of pink, turned grey,
the beginning of a child, grown before her day.