To produce upon demand (or request) is a curious thing;
as if the moon were to become full a week before its time
or if flowers were to pierce the icy ground of winter
and dot that snowy quilt with the sun-bright daisy
or the ancient royal blood of the violet, of the crimson poppy.
This disturbance in the tides, the wolves, the lives of women,
it finds a mirror in each of those vibrant, foreign colors.
The light of a slowly dying sun controls these elemental shifts,
although once the withering of the green meadows
of the Earth, mother of all,
was blamed on the Lord of the Dead.
The stolen, abused goddess-child is now forgotten
as though she were three leaves gracefully falling.
Melpomene, you desire so many things on this day. Your impatience
is perplexing: the seasons turn on their own accord,
infatuations end, fault lines are promises, the stars shed their shells,
the dusts of a thousand novas have combined to make my ink.
Is it not enough to be immortal, must you be forever praised?
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