The Sun is hot and bothered, and libidinal, having fathered
all our mendicants and tycoons, cops and robbers, and our rife loons.
The Earth below is verdant, child of Eros, green, exultant
for solar love would bask her with his sure heat and not task her,
but treasure all her madmen, all her masters and their bondsmen,
thus offering a devotion of which our Gaia has no notion.
The fickle Earth presumes a love from solar powers as enough;
Her denizens expect the same and bask in glory with no name.
Now, the music of the spheres should play loud in one’s own ears
But creation’s power’s assumed, and unheard by all us loons.