Shelley once wrote "Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is," and it has followed me ever since. My birth name is strange, in it's own right, and has given me a sense of attachment to the natural world, and nature led me smoothly and associatively to music. The lyre is an ancient instrument, unique in itself, which produces a very beautiful, somewhat muted sound. I am not a talker, and I do not usually speak loudly, though I love to sing, so my voice assumes the muted hum of the strummed lyre strings.

              The lyre haunts me even as I try to emulate its classical associations, both with the unity and grace of the ancient Greek thought and philosophy. I want to go forward, and yet stay still at the same time. I want to sing forever, like the lyre, and to progress as the Greeks did, but at the same time I want to be remembered, etched into the past as an innovation. I want to be the forest that Shelley speaks of, the peace of the living Earth, and the notes of fire that Lord Byron associates with the musical instrument whose name I have assumed.

The End

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