Most
lovely Erato, has my feeble wish been heard?
Bestowed
not gifts of oil on canvas,
Lying
weary in the shade of thoughts,
I
dare to paint a portrait with the strokes and curves of word.
To
chisel through black marble hearts of men,
With
golden ink and feathered pen.
Therein
lies the faint memory of vanilla robes, roses and myrtle in her hair.
The
soft iron hammer breaks free this goddess of love.
Her
honeyed voice pours over my tablet of despair.
Heavy
eyes are played to sleep,
Misty
echoes of the lyre fill my dream.
Awake
beside me she sings of distances,
Beyond
the vault of stars above and springs beneath the stream.
Fine
shades of beauty,
Hues
of desire, revelation and hope.
I
sculpt and sand the image of a sweet and gentle exalt,
Unbound
by the tightening grip of chastising rope.
Roused
from visionary escape,
Swept
away with the light of morn,
Solitaire
and fortuitous I stand,
From
answered prayers, what magnificence may be borne!
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