In the golden thicket of midday,
when the sun danced over the fields of Enna,
the daughter of the harvest, laughing among the stalks,
wove wreaths of saffron and hyacinth.
Persephone, thusella of light and dew,
knew not yet the weight of the world.

But beneath the earth, where the shadows whisper
a god of deep eyes, of silent throne,
gazed at the sky with contained desire:
Hades, king of the eternal,
longed for the radiance that was not his.

And when the earth sighed his name,
an abyss opened between sleeping roots,
and the ebony chariot emerged from the secret,
dragged by steeds of smoke and lightning.
Persephone cried out, and the world fell silent.
Not a flower dared to grow after her fall.