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.