Consider: lovers sitting in the stairwell.
He calls her by her name, Dolores;
she has her fingers coiled within his curls -
blithe for the fruit she bears,
that, in bearing, will cause the bow to snap!
Before all this he dreamt of fame,
and now wonders (as her eyes are counting rain):
"you think too soon we spoiled your pearls?"
And they wonder if she cares...
Blithe - for there is little else that they can do.
And all along, there, Time had toiled,
as they slept, folded, into morrow;
carving into granite, dust and bone-meal falling,
HERE LIES THE MAKINGS OF A GILDED SORROW -
FALLEN FRUIT FEEDS NOT THE STREET
Blithe... For such is Time's most ancient calling.