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.


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