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Our pages' dearth decrees our prayers for death
when, from time to time, we invoke the Muse
and she doth not reply (but must refuse!)
as our quills run dry while we fail for breath
and poverty. We pray the gods from beneath
Parnassus that we never waste or lose,
but instead acquire, their afflatus,—that ooze
and oil wherewith our lines may flow, enwreath'd
in hallowed tones and framed with solemn rhyme
to honor and magnify the Creator,
the Maker of makers, for all of time:
for there's no Poet more august or greater!
If the Muse but only inspires, desire
we words wherewith we may sing as if afire!

* “maker”: medieval term for poet (i.e., constructor of lines, songs, poems, verse, etc.).


~Ngoc M. Nguyen, 05 April 2020

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