When Amors become sad and worn out,
they are carried by the faint breath of their plumes
to a clump of fruit trees dried by long droughts
and hang from the black boughs like elongated leaves.
Being immortal, Amors can't disintegrate into dust,
but rustle in the wind. Their many-hued wings fade
and show the underlying veins, as all dry leaves do,
each wing becoming a page furrowed by letters.
Amors quiver and unfold stories of joy and woe,
for now that they are dipped in death, no one
but wind-slanted rain pores over their withered writing,
yet if there was a single person, a passer-by,
who could come and try to read their secrets,
Amors would no longer be dead enough to mimic death.