Some call you Euterpe; it suits to drape
you like a waterfall; it shakes with song,
the way a river seeks a fierce escape;
and in your name, wild harmonies belong,
entwining round your being, lyrical
with meaning only music cannot wrong;
the morning’s choirs of birds spryly unfurl
a veil of secrecy over your eyes
and I will never see the swish and swirl
around your arms as you conduct your sighs –
then they become an orchestra of song,
and you are Euterpe, in human guise.

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