Euterpe

The nectar that may never be my own, tonight, I taste again,
Though faithful, I do not deserve the wreath of your regard again.

I sit alone, entranced by mélodies of Ernest Chausson,
While all the crowd is spellbound by the verse of Gautier again.

My eyes glaze over and my cheeks become volcanic, curling fire;
My hands are red and swollen with the blood that twists me ‘round again.

My skin is cold, but on the inside, I am burning up with zeal,
To me, an inspiration and a breath are now the same again.

Thus, at your feet I fall in supplication, begging for this boon.
I am your lover, like so many others. You have won again.

You know that I could never love another while I worship you,
And I have never been unfaithful to the vows I take again.

Your beauty is so terrible I fear that I may stop my breath.
If I cannot inspire, then you cannot inspire my voice again.

Please give to me the secrets with your whisperings, or I may die,
And with me, wisps of caroling that might have come to life again.