Oh, sweet cup of heaven, dashed so rudely from our lips! To have tasted ambrosia, yet to have our hopes dashed as surely as the glass goblet now shattered on the cold stone floor. Immortality and divinity promised, yet betrayed by fate, we are thrown out of Olympus and crawl now upon the earth. The Earth! Seemingly so fruitful and full of promise before, it seems now barren and hellish as the underworld, our companions as kindly as furies. Separated by time and distance insurmountable, what good is a promise of tomorrow? What hope is there for today?

The past burns, forever branded in my memory, scenes as clear and sharp as shattered glass. A single shard from the goblet of heaven fell with me, and is my scrying glass. It shows me much of the past, and some glimpse of the promises of the future, and a lover's face fills my mind. But it shows naught of the present, for I see too much of that with mine own eyes. The shard captivates me, engulfs my imagination, but what use to taunt me with what I cannot have?

Young lovers, beware! Naught but pain have the fates in store for ye! Happiness is hard to find, but steal that which you can, and love shall make more of it than is there. Yet be warned, for young love does magnify sorrow as it does happiness. Yet if young lovers endure, and if pain does not kill young love, it may grow, and become old love, and young lovers become old lovers. And then! Oh, what joy!