Nine times I’ve watched the ancient, sacred hill,
each time with more determination than
before. I knew that if I would only stand
there long enough, I’d see you come along.
But mornings passed, then afternoons, and still,
though I would praise your names, and praise again,
nothing stood upon that hill but grass, and
that’s not why I was there. So, was I wrong?

If I watch and believe, please, will you come
and speak to me in words of love, of lust,
of myth, of what you will? I’ve lost the sight
of you and without that, I’m stricken dumb.

Calliope, Euterpe, Erato, must
all of my muses bathe in mortal light?