One by one, they rush to me,
these "suitors" so unsuitably,
such challengers of no good fame,
each intent, exerting claim
above this heart, across its name.
Few, if one, would say, "For shame!"
or dare apportion any blame
for entertaining certain quests
as absence - twenty years - suggests
Odysseus might not return.
Yet still this faithful heart does burn
where other torches long went dark.
What I feel transcends the lark,
and carries word across the sea
to any demigod: "Let he,
who gave me kingdom, son,
deliver us from what we run,
restore our love, this land, all time.
Bring me back what once was mine."
Until he comes, I'll weave this shroud,
then unweave it; I'm avowed
to patiently expect those hours
my marriage may reveal its powers
to make these suitors disappear
when two divided souls cohere.