Spring's Nectar Poem by Iara Aimer

The earth's womb is said to be mother to the grief, and the latter a genus that bids the horizon for golden suns. Perhaps as golden as the age that once caressed the bone-like fingers of Phoebus, golden as the rings that adorn the wan hands of Phoebus. For eons have they played upon the fragile strings of a harp, as delicately as they held the cup filled with a divine drink. Now the chest of the apotheosis is none but a sickly breath, the white cheeks faint amid the pale horizons and the corpses of woodbine. Once more a cup of nectar is held in the skeletal hands and the splenetic lips of the metrical, of Phoebus the warlock of poetry, are fondled by the divine drink. It provides the sickly throat with new vigor, for the nectar heaven bestows, and the sight is one of a sempiternal spring, of a heavenly reborn.