O muse, sing of how I am nothing more
Than this, so mute, so selfish even now
As I look deep into these godlike words;
I am made small. This is a prophecy.
O muse, sing loudly of my weakness
And my pride! I wish for gifts I cannot
Claim, hold my ambition high with my own
Flawed voice—my death erased by glory sought.
O muse, sing of the things I think I know:
The machinations of the human mind,
The greatness that eclipses dying suns—
How I bid haste to these old dreams of mine.
Sing hymns of how inferior I am,
Of need to prove that I existed—breathed.