He sits and muses over her, his inspiration.
She sees him not – not as he’d wish;
but he sees her, immortalises her with words to last for years;
words she will never read, words she never hears.
She goes about her business, gliding by with gossamer grace,
Golden, bright, beautiful she passes;
she an angel, he a spectre.
Heads turn as she walks, voices mutter, jealous,
“There goes Dido, off to see Aeneas.”
No room for poor Iarbas: his prayers fall on deaf ears,
no room for his words, words she never hears.
What is Echo without her voice?
A silent spectre of life: unseen, unheard, unknown.
‘Who is more pitiful? Echo or I?’, he wonders as he sits –
as he sits and waits, unseen, unheard;
waiting for something that will never happen.
At least Echo has her voice still,
He merely perseveres,
with these words she never hears.