Wednesday, May 30, 2012
My muse, my muse, my muse has gone astray. Gone westward and gone there to stay. When looking I don't find, When speaking I don't hear, Familiar musings so I could tilt my ear. And the thickness of the days each Gone with the sun and ended incomplete. When remembering I see, When storytelling I doubt, Times of sharing tea remain, singularly. Old arts and myths can collide And find me taken back to that time: The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam, Unbearable Lightness of Being, Stories of these unfold in my mind.