Calliope, Calliope, in sleepless hours visits me,
and whispers in my ears whenever I’m alone.
Calliope, Calliope, the source of creativity—
believe me when I tell you: these words are not my own.
I court the lady wisdom, through the wilderness inside,
but the mind may be a prism, and the truth a shaft of light.
But one thing’s fairly certain: now I’ve placed my life for sale,
for a glance behind the curtain, for a glimpse beneath the veil.
Calliope, Calliope, reach deep into my memory:
recount the paths I’ve wandered to the places I have gone.
Calliope, Calliope, envelop me, inspire me,
enrapture me with mercury—breathe fire through my song.