A muse will never sing this tune.
This song, unmatched, now flows through you.
Betwixt the Sun and Moon, your grace
kisses from the cosmic face.
Like air you are on drowning mouths.
Cool and calm this tincture flows
to blow the birds in summer South.
This potion does our garden grow.
Our realms entwined when blossoms sprung,
when stars so warm in Heaven hung.
Like stone we stood on schism’s edge
until we fell back in this bed.
Forge we will our mithril fates,
so separate yet so hand-in-hand.
Now we sleep, for time grows late,
on ocean’s reach, the Earth our sand.