Beauty descends his mountain. What could it mean,
of beauty’s high stature bending low to greet a flower?
Electric sparks of green dart lithely like a bee,
faster than a flash of light trapping the soul in flight.
What could it mean? What did it mean?
Love and Beauty chanced to meet, although they never kissed;
Yet just as quickly as the dawn, his shadow came and left.
Returning to his lofty mien, taking not an ounce, no dew,
no pollen, not a spec, not even a single grain. This lowly
flower emits perfume – her fragrance was stirred up –
To fill a room unjustly desolate of bloom. Yet diligent,
demurely attending two earthy verdant pools
Beauty’s downy crescent moon…
crooning nectar and honey.