What is our love worth to those mere mortals?
Is it measured like the sky is scattered with stars,
or our bodies are riddled with scars?
Is it deeper than the ocean’s ebbs and flows?
Is it coarse like the gravel beneath our feet?
Is it envied by death and all of his friends,
like the fleeting, sweet-sung poet’s breeze?
Is it found in breath and wisps of wind,
in a golden house on a summer’s eve?
So, what does it matter what mere mortals think?
for they cannot conjure the air
and mortals cannot love as we do my dear:
Gods, only gods can do that.