I don't imagine fanfare, or ones' praise,
or even golden handshakes with doubloons
that shine ablaze. I'm not fond to appraise
and judge all those who eat from silver spoons.
Yet I'm the one who'll always notice you,
while others turn, thinking love’s aloof.
Please, have some sips of this rich golden brew,
that’ll soon give you love and certain proof
that other scribes will doubtlessly respect
your poem’s dreams with Greek’s antiquities.
We’ll drink this spicy brew and we’ll expect
to write, as Calliope’s true trainees.
With Calliope’s lips, and nut-brown hair,
with eyes aglow and delicately so,
she sideways steps through a slow misty glare,
surrounding her head with a halo’s glow.
Imagine Calliope’s tranquil voice
and magical choice of her harmony,
when we, celestially, now rejoice
her runes and all her blessed poetry