Perhaps along a Burmese river bank
One dugong fins his way past mangrove roots
With languid grace. A world away he’s called
Endangered, like his cousin manatee,
Relics, both, of power and of myth.

Called Sirenia, their order’s named
Rightly for sirens: poets of the deep
And feared for what they sing. Lock them all up!
Zoos! Send to them all rebel mammals, birds,
Youths, and poets with their crazy songs!

Shadows fall when the bright moon is blocked,
Even as its senior, the sun, can be.
Nothing but darkness outlines those who stand
In the way of light. A shadow stretched enough
Only seems larger than its prideful man
Reveling in his false rule over light.

Go safe, go silent, like all who live in fear?
Everyone, that is, except the local souls:
Nats, spirits of the forest, hills, and trees.
Each must be appeased if displaced by field,
Road, or house. They teach defiance, strength.
Ally yourself with nats against the general
Lack of hope this fear will ever end.

The goal, when malice calls itself upright?
How else, than turning wrongs inside-out
And righting them? Let siren stand for truth—
Not deceit—and poets turn love to fists.

Siren songs, like fish wending their way
Higher to light, can save endangered truth
When zoos or prisons try to shut it up.
Even words can slip through iron bars.