Lubabalo Tatase Poet Lyric

The Muse You Give

The Muse You Give
I searched for her in Delphi's sacred hush,
in Homer's sea, in every star above,
in ancient scrolls, in dawn's first golden blush,
and found instead a smaller kind of love.

She came the evening you sat down with me,
no lyre in your hands, no laurel crown,
just kindness poured as simply as the tea,
and time that gently laid my burdens down.

You asked me how I was, and stayed to hear.
You did not hurry me, or count the cost.
And something woke that I had held in fear,
a small bright song I feared was long since lost.

So this, I learned, is the Muses' truest way:
not thundering from mountains, robed in flame,
but in a hand held out at close of day
that calls the weary poet by his name.

The elders said it long before my pen:
"A person is a person through the rest."
And every verse I offer, now and then,
is yours: the muse you gave, my grateful best.

Ndiyabulela, I give thanks, dear friend.
The muse you give is the muse that will not end.

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