The secret of the sirens is that they know your secret: your love of self in all its flower. The sirens lure you by weaving that love into song. What was once but the distant thunder of crashing waves becomes an echo in your soul. The song reaches out to you in the call of birds. Wind and wave carry the song and draw you close. At last, you know you are loved. Too late you see the rocks and the shore bleached white with bone. Were you able like Odysseus to hear the sirens’ song and contrive as he does to pass them by, you would become like a god. And just as surely die. So Odysseus, as Dante tells us (pace Homer), sets a new course to the west and away from home. No thought of Ithaca or Penelope holds him back. Out he sails to unknown lands, but all he finds is the barren sea. He sails on, as dead as he will ever be, the song now a bird of prey. Best never to leave home. The sea, of course, will find you, but at least you will die in your bed.