I Have No Words, But Words That Are Grey Poem by Emmanuel George Cefai

I have no words, but words that are grey.

Yes grey, the color is not here
Because I am not inspired now.
The Muse has to come and save me.

And here, here, I write, I write still
Not just for writing but perhaps
Like a wheel turning mechanically from
The previous rounds, on its axle;
The last rounds and turns of the wheel
May be
Before it stops for now.

Yes, I spoke and versified long ago
And not so long ago about
Parched throat, dry hill side,
Water coming not, dry, dry,
Dust of the dry summer, touched
By the Moses iron rod a new Spring.
From now
That is still beginning of the Winter
That is a rather long way to go.

So I have to hope in the Muse.

And I will do crazy things; yes,
What before I asserted crazy,
Now I do, and feel comfortable
Or at least not the sign of guilt
And anguish and desperation:
No, no, no.


There was a time when
I looked at a certain sundial to
Mark time: a sort of game,
That’s all.
But now my nervousness
Gets the better of me and
I
No longer think slow of Time
But with impatience look not
On the sundial.
I know Time is Motion and I
Know that Time goes round
All the same,
Cutting leaf after leaf from my diary,
My calendar,
And yet, I, parched though
The more yearning for my lyre,
Still
Waiting to sing, and write and
Versify.