The Day the Muses Fell Silent

The morning broke, but colour did not rise,
No blush of dawn to gild the waiting skies.
The birds forgot their choruses of flight,
And silence weighed upon the world like night.

The painters hand hung limp above the frame,
The poets tongue could find no spark of flame.
The dancer froze mid-step, her foot unsure,
The sculptors marble left unmarked and pure.

No music stirred the heart to leap or weep,
No vision roused from a lost dreamer's sleep.
The world was stripped of beauty, bare and grey,
A husk of thought, where wonder lost its way.

Children no longer laughed with sudden song,
Stories lay mute, unformed, their voices gone.
The very air grew heavy, dull, confined
For Art had fled, and left an empty mind.


And yetsome whisper trembles in the gloom,
A pulse of Colour trembling to resume.
Though all seems bereft and breaking apart,
A small seed of Song endures in the heart.

Penned by my hand on the 2nd of Lupar, in the year 983 AF.