Old Io,
of vernal sphere,
of vernal lips,
sings lovingly to a gold skylark. Such, such a joy! L'espoir eternel!
And Io blows a kiss;
and Io waltzes through her starry veranda;
and the skylark slips away from all
the vernal cypresses to meet
with earthly tears, —
to pass a song of blaue Blume
to Taurus.
The Taurus, he stands alone.
Alone he stands.
He's been awaken for never
fall asleep again.
He never sings.
And ever since
his April
hasn't been sincere.
"I need to plan!", "I am indebted,"
he thinks.
"No, blaue Blume will not help me".
But for a second,
why,
maybe,
he may feel hopeful like a human.