Upon the supernal court,
Love, facing Death,
Spits obscenities and cries:

“Thou shalt be forsaken for thy thefts;
I see thou art but a thief,
Taketh life and giveth grief.
Beauty thou knowest not,
Turning wood to ash, and man to rot.”

Death, as cold as night,
Responds soft, a quiet croon:

“I am not a thief, for when it's dark,
The sun is not taken, but changed for the moon.”