It had come to be a while

since my Muses sang to me,

with their soft melodies,

voices like little bells,

chimes and fairy giggles in the forest.

So,

I complained.

How could I be expected to create

without their whispers,

their gentle prodding,

without their intimations of a world

made of beauty, song and delight?

I needed them to sing to me,

so,

like all mad-men and poets

I spoke to them.

(I have two fairy dolls,

silk-ribbon-hung from my roll top desk.)

I said,

“Are you ladies on vacation?

I thought I was your focus,

your only destination!

Where have you been?

Why have there been no

words?”

Then I heard,

nearly too soft to recognize,

saw,

nearly too shadowed to see,

their crying and their tears.

“Dear hearts!

Why the sorrow?

Why the sadness?”

They looked at me,

and etched on their lovely faces,

now,

was anger and ferocity.

“Can you not see?

Look around!

Our voices choke on all words but one!

Freedom!

How can you write of anything else?

There is

no love,

no joy,

no beauty

’till there is Freedom

in the world!

Freedom from and Freedom to!

Freedom for and Freedom to all!

Hear us!”

So,

my muses spoke.

There is nothing else to do.

I must call

for Freedom

or write nothing at all.