The story gets it wrong. It was not Love
with whom the poet spent so many years
who drove him out. He cried so many tears
that men said he’d been cursed by God above.
She lives on mountain tops. She has no shame,
makes love to lines of men, and women too.
Tells lies, but all her lies are somehow true.
Wraps nakedness in silk, but not through shame.
His exile ended, Tannhauser returned.
The Pope had cursed him, but he did not care
because a rhyme had struck him. On the air
he caught the scent of her for whom he burned
It’s never lovers that we fear to lose,
but dryness, silence, absence of our Muse.