My Muse has gone.
Why has she me left?
'Tis not that I am desolate nor wan
But there is no doubt of her I am bereft.
Struggle and strive as I may,
I can summon neither image nor theme.
It must be that I have lost my way.
Let this offering serve as my silent scream!
Whither has she fled
And where does she hide?
Was it something I left unsaid?
Now I feel so empty inside.
In her has been my one and only consolation,
Yet here do I plough a barren furrow
With little or no hope of any propagation.
If only she would return tomorrow!
This I do not wish to be my swansong,
Rather that my Muse may be dormant like Lazarus
Whose voice like the Phoenix will arise ere too long.
Utinam exigam monumentum aere perennius!