By W.G. Quixote
Date: 16 May 1997

Reawakening

My silent heart, stilled too long in slumber
beneath the mantle of many seasons' snow,
like the crusted cicada slowly stirring,
springs back now to a life left long ago.

The soft siren call that wakes me
from this dark and damp recess
is a sorrowful song so sweetly sung
by the wounded poet princess.

"Let not, good mistress of the muse,
lost love break open your heart.
but may the sting of such errant arrows
encourage and inspire your art."

As the sun sometimes yields to clouds and rain
so love is often purged by pain.