I am the firstborn Prince of Autumn,

Asked how to save oneself from the cliffs edge, and how I saved myself.

I do not know where to begin my story,

Perhaps I shall first invoke my muse.

Sing muse, sing!

Sing thy glorious odes!

Submit to me as did Homer,

I shall conquer you as of Virgil,

I shall drag you through the Infernum as of Dante,

We shall survey Eden’s fall as of Milton.

Glorious tales of knights, of realms unseen, of stories untold!

Lend me your aid!

 

Or will you?

I once thought you could do this.

I was young, I was unafraid of the world around me;

The tales in my mind were just as real as the Earth beneath my feet.

In my naiveté I created.

In my home, mountains surrounded me, and at those mountain’s feet ran rivers,

Cold rivers, and at the bottom of those rivers ran salamanders.

Tiny salamanders. They came in a wide variety of colors,

The most striking of which were bright red ones. 

They were extremely rare and easy to pick out among the forest.

I found myself attached to these tiny creatures,

I too was rare and stuck out amongst a grey world.

And the older I got, the more I realized how tiny I was;

I myself was just a salamander,

In a rushing river,

At the bottom of a mountain. I was no subject for a muse.

You would never sing about me. 

You had too much to do, too many people to sing for.

People who you thought would win wars and lead nations.

The Cour des rois of the Summer and the Spring were beautiful and valiant,

And the Princes of Autumn found no love for those things;

Their stories went untold, unsung, heroes without poetry.

You left me with nothing but pen and paper.

Thus I lend my voice to the story! 

I am my own Muse!

Can I not see Eve sin myself?

Can I not watch as Troy falls with my own eyes?

Can I not sing my own song?

Thus here is my refrain:

“The Age of the Muse has died,” says the Prince,

“Long live the age of Autumn!”

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