Within the blossoming byzantium thickets,

lay the hearts of lilac lovers. 

 

Held by sacred blooms, we waltz in lavender streams, 

manifesting only eternal vows. 

 

For if my imagination wanders to an acre of winter annuals, 

and gray paints the sky, 

we will rise upon the earth, 

swinging through the haze, 

praying for salvation from its pewter maze. 

 

But crystals plummet from the Heavens to our skin, 

crippling the limbs that hold us so dear, 

 

forcing out tears with volcanic tremors,

then washing away our Eden, newly diminished to embers. 

 

Reduced to nullity, the lilacs still pullulate 

With each grand perianth fashioning a new Belle Époque.

 

And when visitors come to see the lilac lovers, they seem to always say,

“Down to the lilac fields often should we go,

to behold the secret splendor that eases the senses,

like freshly fallen snow,

to where the lilac lovers, oh so long ago first met,

and then became one in the form of newly weds.”

 

We join in the the light of the amethyst skies 

And embark on new wonders, 

All while singing an ode to us, the new lilac lovers.