(Wherein Cupid looses an arrow, yet love does not bloom; and Corinth, city of romance, is plunged into despair.)
Upon a cloud where roses lay,
With swirling scent and golden ray,
There lounged the god of vain design,
A poet lost in dreams divine!
But now his musings took their flight,
For duty called—his grandest rite!
To shape the hearts of those below,
To weave the bonds that lovers know.
A maiden fair, a suitor true,
Upon the streets of Corinth flew,
Their hands entwined, their eyes alight,
A perfect pair—a love set right.
"Ah, such a match! Such hearts so bold!"
"Their love shall shine in songs retold!"
"By Cupid's hand, their fates shall twine—"
"A bond unshaken! Strong! Divine!"
With steady grip and knowing smile,
He nocked an arrow, paused a while,
Then loosed the string—a whisper light,
A perfect shot! A flawless flight!
Yet high above, unseen, unheard,
There lurked a thief, her fingers stirred.
Laverna, mistress swift and sly,
Had watched, had waited, grinning wry.
And as the golden shaft took wing,
She plucked its twin with nimble spring.
A flick, a swap—so quick, so fleet,
That none could mark the cunning feat!
And down it plunged, the cursed dart,
Not love to spark, but severed hearts.
It struck the suitor, proud and bright,
And in his chest—a hollowed night.
His hand released, his breath ran cold,
His eyes grew dark, his heart turned old.
A gasp! A cry! A shattered moan—
The love he’d felt was now undone.
"Away, away!" he reeled, aghast,
"This feeling false, this love won't last!"
"A trick! A lie! A fleeting dream!"
"No more, no more—I break, I leave!"
And at his feet, the maiden fair,
Her lips apart, her tear-stained stare,
Reached forth, in sorrow, lost and numb—
Yet he had turned. Her love was done.
A City in Ruin
A single thread, a single sting,
Yet ripples formed—a crumbling ring.
For all across the streets so wide,
Where lovers walked and hearts confide,
The break began—a plague, a storm,
Where bonds of love were ripped and torn.
A husband stood, his fingers tight,
And loosed his grasp mid-waltz, mid-flight.
"My heart is cold," he whispered low,
"I know not why—but I must go."
A bride-to-be, in lace so fine,
Did halt her steps at temple shrine.
"A moment past, I swore my love—"
"And now... and now, 'tis dust above!"
A bard, whose songs of passion soared,
Now shattered every oaths he swore.
He cast his lute into the sea,
And cried, "No love shall sing through me!"
A painter stared upon his muse,
Yet all he saw were shapeless hues.
"Her beauty fades!" he choked, confused,
"A wretched mask! A form misused!"
The streets of Corinth, soft with bliss,
Now rang with wails, with love amiss.
Where once the roses twined so red,
Their petals fell—the bloom was dead.
Cupid's Horror
From high above, the archer's eyes,
Looked down upon the mortal cries.
His lips grew pale, his hands unsteady,
His voice, once smug, now thin, unready.
"But—this was not my spell, my craft!"
"Some cruel device, some twisted shaft!"
"No, no, no! This cannot be!"
"Love should not turn! Should not flee!"
His wings unfurled, his stance unsure,
For never had his arrows erred.
Yet now, beneath his artful gaze,
The world had dimmed, the hearts decayed.
Yet high above, in marbled halls,
The echoes rang—the tricksters called.
For Laverna, bright with glee,
Did whisper soft, so mockingly:
"Oh, Cupid dear, what fates conspire?"
"What cruel misstep doth thus transpire?"
"Was it thy aim? Thy fleeting grace?"
"Or didst thou miss—thy hand misplaced?"
And Mercury, with laughing breath,
Did feign a sigh, a gasp, a death:
"Oh, love is fickle, love is pain—"
"Who knew thine art could fail so plain?"
Yet Discordia, full of guile,
Did simply watch—and grin the while.
For in her palm, so light, so small,
The golden apple lay—a thrall.
"Let love unravel, let it break—"
"For soon enough, more fun we’ll make."
And thus, as Cupid stared in woe,
As Corinth’s cries rose loud below,
The gods above, in mirth and jest,
Prepared once more—love’s next great test.
