Of the Greek muses, I do not write
For my poetry does not come from them.
It’s you, my muse, that sets my soul alight
And from you does my inspiration stem.
And the words flow like sheets of gentle rain
Upon my parched soul which thirsts for you.
My feelings, I can no longer dare feign.
My heart, too long, desires to sing anew.
And my heart does sing, I cannot ignore.
My hands are softly beckoned to the quill.
My spirit is shaking down to its core;
And the world seems to stand silently still.
Each letter I write is wrought from my heart
My muse, you are the life of my art.