The Motley Drama
An Alternative Fiction Platform

The Muse of Europa

 

In my chamber, as frost melted in th’early morn’,
My soul stirred to songs inspiring.
Visions of hands raised as shields for a dying land
Spurred my heart to sad admiring.

 

Then, my room glimmered with radiant luminance,
The source taking a maiden’s frame.
As light dimmed to soft glow, her features soon emerged,
Though never reached their aim.

 

There I stood, beholding this translucent wonder,
Noting her mournful expression.
I enquired who the damsel, so pallid, could be.
Thus, she offered her confession:

 

“The Muse of Europa stands before thee,” said she,
Her voice worthy of love and fear.
“This physical form may not be known to thee, but
Oft’ have I whispered in thine ear.”

 

“If, indeed, you are The Muse,” said I, “then, pray tell
Why, so corporal, come to me?”
My curiosity ill-contained, on I pressed,
“And why with such deficiency?”

 

With somber smile, she spoke, “Alas the lack you see
Is the cruel lot of fading.
To our mother, Europa, my clan is bonded.
And to her, Death is pervading.”

 

“To Europa, are many children,” she explained
Perceiving my perplexity.
“My siblings and I,” said she, “are linked to Mother.
Should she perish, then so shall we.”

 

A moment, she gave, allowing me to ponder
The relations of this other.
Deep within, I knew all ’twas true, therefore queried
“My dear Muse, what ails your mother?”

 

A tear—so faintly seen—rolled down her solemn cheek.
With trembling lip, she related,
“Thy people, source of her strength, stray from her embrace
Forgetting, to you, she’s fated.”

 

Weeping here without reserve, ’twas some time before
She found resolve, and on she went.
“As my kin is tied to her, she is tied to yours.
Hence, by my brother, I am sent.”

 

Again she paused, permitting me to protest with,
“Surely, Europa cannot die.”
Without recess, I resumed, “And what of my kin?
What connection do you imply?”

 

“Eternal, Mother is not,” The Muse continued.
“She draws life through thee and thy tribe.
Should thy kinsmen expire or scorn her tradition,
The draft of Death, she will imbibe.

 

“Yet, both now transpire as thy numbers dwindle and
Of thy mores thou makes mockery.”
With no grounds to object, my head sank, and I asked
“Your brother, dear Muse, who is he?”

 

“The Sword of Europa, the great fighting spirit.
He intends to see Mother rise.
He rallies the warriors of thy kind for battle
And asks of me to do likewise.”

 

The implications from her latest words struck me,
Her design made clear by this clue.
“Dear Muse, I’ve no blade,” said I, “nor troops to command.
What can a humble writer do?”

 

“Thou must sing the praises of Europa,” said she.
“Lead with words to what once made might.
Pen tales and songs that would unify thy people,
And from darkness, lead them to light.

 

“Remember, dear poet: the pen gives strength to steel.
So fear not, for I am with thee.”
With that said, The Muse became immaterial,
And left me to my reverie.

 

Alone again, I pondered the weight of my charge
And the price to pay should I shirk.
My soul cried for action, so I seized my pen and
Set myself to my righteous work.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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