To The Muse
Quick, won’t you help me with this undertaking,
you, the noblest of faces in all of Rome?
Tame my urges toward deplorable
verse about little Hypanis Veneto
and his sidekick Eridano;
I know little of love’s complexities,
but let me honor you in song.
Olim gratus eram: that wasn’t so bad,
it sounded true, and without simile.
Invidiae fuimas: how’s that, ok?
What, sing of Prometheus again?
I can’t remember details: his life was painful.
He lived a long time in exile because he loved
his people. That singular and primal kind
of commitment, bald, sincere,
is now more like a carrion covered desert;
but let’s not be nihilistic, love, no crying:
If everything were nothing but dead color
and I was chained to a rock, I’d still serve you:
your name so true I dare not say it.
-- Justin Marks
