My name springs from your memory divine, sweetly lingering on your honeyed lips. Its soft-spoken syllables become an echo that traverses entire epochs. The inspiration you infused into my heart shines through my scar-filled flesh. You have committed my entire life to memory, for you know the tale of time itself. My early beginnings follow each other in kingly succession as you tell my life's tale. You rendered all rhymes unspoken spoken between my humble birth and the glories that followed. Oh Muse, you were there when I first stepped onto a battlefield. You made me a warrior, and then a poet. My blade tore through the enemy, and now you lend my heart the silvered tongue with which to pierce the half-radiant unknown. Calliope, you were there when sentient streams flowed from deep within a bruised core. You were there when kings marveled at the quickness of my blade and allowed me to reach the crowning glory. You once spoke my name. You made me a poet long before I became one. Your muted presence journeyed through every second I spent on battlefields. You know that I was a warrior before I became a poet. Now, I feel my epic poem rhyming fully with my life. You tell my life's tale, and then I am young again. I am in my war armor now, and I feel my youth coursing through me once again. Suddenly, my oral storytelling flees from me, for you have returned me to the stage of my life when my poems were unknown, unspoken both in memory and rhyme.