Boethius Waits

I sang indulgent measures that the beautiful, pitiful muses whispered in my ears. They consoled my fate of gloomy old age. They filled me with mournful complaints, until an ageless Woman appeared.

"Actress harlots, muses of self-pity, get out! Go dance your way into the pit of the dead. You shall not touch this sick person: he's mine."

With the muses banished, their trance forgotten, Wisdom became my nurse."Stop playing the blues, start hearing the truth," the inexhaustible Beauty chided. She who cries aloud in the streets, the firstborn of creation on whom creation was built, came to my cell with a loving slap in the face. She pierced me with kindness. Her voice, her words were stronger than death. And so, as I waited for death, I was consoled.