Once Amor walked into the orchard
of pear trees and apple trees, in which
he used to rest, forgetting the distress
of a god unfailingly hitting his target.
While he was asleep, a dryad stole his bow,
his poisoned arrows and rushed to the camp
where ladies preened themselves and knights
drank wine before a joyous tournament.
She started shooting violently, at close range,
avenging her dear sisters who had been made
ladders, lances and bars across the field –
but, instead of turning into embittered lovers,
all the knights and ladies became fair rustling trees,
for shooting is the mirror of the shooter.