December Dreams

The fate of love

Tis not for man to boast and sing
Of all the futures strewn
Across the plains of history
That have been left to ruin,

But better that the minstrels play
Less melancholy tunes,
And scribes paint future seasons spring
With their romantic runes.

"Soon the Aegean gods will find
Their jealousies rebirthed."
Yet perfect love, save fate or change,
Shall never be unearthed.

And so the sages study still
The music of the spheres,
While wiser gods, with useless hands,
Brush back celestial tears.