Why has the Muse in me become dormant?
She is so quiet that she seems dead.
The days of intense suffering are over
Yet the Muse has remained evasive and elusive
Refusing to stir,or to flow freely.
She is not even protesting though imprisoned
Behind the bars of anger,frustration and sheer agony.
She does not raise a voice nor attempt to break the shackles.
Is she the same who has helped poets of yore
To cry and laugh,to frown and smile and feel at peace
So that their joys and griefs, their agonies and ecstasies
Could find expression and flow in words of sheer magic?
If she minds she can tear to pieces the engulfing sadness
And bring ripples of laughter back into my life.
"Will she?" the question pops up again and again.