Crossed by the hero-card, the lovers -
limpid spirits unconstrained:
see, on their lips, in questing eyes,
the tell-tale signs of time disdained.
Do not ask why bees in arbours
reach crescendo, swarm again;
do not doubt that the butterfly,
the cicada, ride sun's blinding vanes.
Do not try to explain to the cloud
it is preordained to dissolve in rain,
but let the lyre devised for lovers
not be tuned by the muse in vain.