All is not lost.
Two cups still stand.
Maybe – like the Two of Cups –
they are the two of you,
and all the others foolishness
like last night’s drinks,
like when you find yourself the following morning
in bed beside an unknown face, unknown hair.
All is not lost.
For the two of you,
hand in hand,
or for you alone if need be,
there remains the bridge that leads
across the river to another chance
somewhere, in some other land.
Add Water to Fire, the Fire goes out.
Add Fire to Water, the Water boils away.
Nothing is left.
Fire has bright eyes, high ideals, dreams.
Bur Fire cannot stay.
Each new lovely woman, each new ideal,
new dream, comes swirling out of the future and …
is gone. Like Water.
Water never looks back.
But nor does Fire.
Raise the cup on the barren hills,
Daughters of Bacchus! Drink your fill,
three generations dancing as one
beneath the moon, beneath the sun.
Soon, too soon, tomorrow will come
and descent to the city and homes and men
and a life of barren propriety.
You have a wife?
Children, maybe? A home? A job?
Yet like a summer lunatic
one night in June
you turn your back on love
and cross the Mountains of the Moon
in search of something lacking in your life.
The perfect wife,
perfect lover, perfect mother,
yet always dreaming of the sea,
always longing to be free.
Was she a mermaid in another life?
What are you telling me, little fish,
that someone gave as a present to me?
Throw me back and I’ll be with you
whenever you sail upon the sea.
Foolish promises, little fish.
Nobody stands with his back to the sea
save those who drowned in a former life,
those who fear and abhor the sea.
Would you really do this thing for me?
Would you, could you, little fish?
Throw me back and my sisters three
will come to you wherever you be,
when your ship falls apart and the sailors drown,
and carry you safe through the raging sea.
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