The Muse and the Messenger

[caption id="attachment_243421" align="alignnone" width="240" caption="Ilustrasi:www.artpad.com"][/caption]

I nearly got accustomed to your sudden visits,

at such odd hours, between waking and dreaming,

In such fleeting thoughts, or at the rare moments

When I feel most alive, saturated with life.

I recognize you, Goddess, although you are plainly

Cloaked in a commoner's robe. You came to me in

Unremarkable things, like the sound of children’s

Laughter, a warm heart of an old friend, kind words

Uttered by strangers, or the cool scented breeze that

Escaped the scorching sun through my window.

At these times, the words flow through me, guided

By the brilliant light of the patron’s torch,

Effortlessly finding their sanctuary in my pages.

At other times, mercilessly you confront me in

Your worst effronteries. You use the not so random

Tragedies: the death of an estranged neighbor, of love

Found and lost, or of halted personal dreams. Sometimes

You took in a colossal scale: the slow annihilation

Of a nation, natural disasters that wiped out an entire

Island, humans crushed by their own frailties into pain

And loss. At unfortunate times like this, I stuttered,

Finding words utterly useless: metaphors inadequate, similes

Contrasted, empty and barren to convey the melancholy

Of life, of the curse of being human, the sheer tragedy of it.

The crushing magnitude of it is paralyzing, while still

I wrestle with the shattering affairs in my own small

Misshapen life, with my own personal trials.

A mere vessel I am, interpreter of joy and sorrow, a messenger

At best. Ultimately, it is the words that chose me, bound me, and

Dutifully, I surrender to your will, my soul torn with every sorrow

I echoed, then roughly patched up with brief humble raptures,

And torn all over again.

***

Lagu Indigo Girls, Virginia Woolf