On Being Deserted By the Muse

A truant moon has shamed the sky

When the darkest hour is nigh 

My muse has chosen to desert

When the thirst is high for the art

The master flutist lost his handle

His status now a sulfurous saddle 

In the absence of my prized muse

I can’t scribble stories with maze

What steps do I dance in the square

When my poems poor they fare? 

The colourful feathers of the pheasant

Faded on the day it scheduled a tryst

Fluency fled: our orator is humbled

He tumbled over words and bubbled  

Dear god, if this poem earns me some scold 

It’s because you imbue my horizon with cloud

Please come back to me my first love

That my dryland would blossom to grove

It was in your cult that I first spilled blood

Yet I am not retiring my sword to scabbard


By Abdulaziz Abdulaziz

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