You ask me to

etch from scratch

A dream in words with

my mind's chalk.

You want me

to spill the blood of

my Muse,

Without cutting across

a part that had even mistakenly bled.

Every drop of heart drained in tears,

Any flesh and muscle having been pierced by

your angelic soul;

How do I make you know

that, having refused

the Gods,

even my Existence lets me down

in my such Labour, after your passing wish, that

belittle even the Herculean tasks.