Eros
Gods hath beset upon him gifts
Sought by men time after time
A strange essence, a divine content
A perfect structure beyond an artist’s reach
He stealeth stars from the sky,
Cheateth the finger of time,
And weaveth his love merrily
In the cobwebs of tears and joys
He speaketh a wordless language
But the arrow shot always turns around
Slain was he through heart and spirit
From his cause, his own game at the heart of dawn
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