Muses – poem

Do not go further, come close.
Purify the night with your dance.

I will rest my head on your shoulder
to be sure of following you and seeing

that which you see, to enfold you better.
Your peplos is frayed by evil omens,

by the song of unworthy throats, of little words.
This is why you made me grow up far away,

in me instilling vanity, this voice.
You amuse yourself languishing in nostalgia,

and crowning me with ivy and fantasies.
You always whisper the same lament,

cynical, disillusioned. ‘Would you like to die!?’
You ask me every morning at the dawn

of this room where you have confined me,
where that dim flame you light for me

with which you hold me, just quivers.
When will I persuade myself to let you go?