children of Aphrodite and Hermes / linger upon the emerald meadow of Athens' mountains / the beaus of the sun and moon are beside them / lips of a child fondling a bare cheek flushed from the warmth of the apocalypse which had occurred / centuries ago / earth is long gone, instead the gravity is stopped by the meadow crafted from angel dust and the waves of the giggles of youthful creatures /
whose mothers and fathers are sacrificing themselves / at wars and patriotic events which morph / a life into a sprinkle of ash and cinder / organic figures of children no more than four centuries / touch the meadow with their grace and delicacy than even the soil / kisses their feet and calls them pretty / silently wishing to hold those children forever above it /
centuries come and go / and the meadow is still an adolescent upholding trees and branches proudly above her / water spills over them plenty / and the soil drinks it, licks their lips and takes the liquid / into their bloodstream / they're bare and mahogany / slightly dry from the caress of the sun / yet they don't mind /
the children are now adults / star seeds long gone into nebulae of passion and human negligence / and the soil is alone, longing a troupe which will make their life more enthusiastic / and one day the moon kisses them for what seems like hours / the sun joins / and the soil bares children of their own / they thank the sun /
pull it in on the apocalyptic gravitational field to bare its gratitude / and they can hear the giggle of the moon above / and for once, the soil is gleeful they can bare and carry the love of multiple creatures at any point in time /
