The task of Muse, it seems a little oddly,
Because it doesn't go back to inspiring
But to incessant touching of your body
And thereby will cause a reverse sparging.
So Muse is jumping to you like a ball,
And beats in shoulders, arms, in back, in heart,
And quietly repeats your lexicon,
Some right, but some the other way around.
If you have known those happy moments
When she is always ready to attend,
When she is dressed and in her footwear trots on
And runs to you through any time on bed,
Forgetting all the hard labors and problems,
She squeezes you and asks for ricochet -
Your happiness again in sounds enclothing,
And then you rise to the sky - a poet.