Liebe gegen Liebe, a joust

what a boring thing it would be,
if all wishes were to be granted? for each and every body
In name of the idiot boy Dion from Knossos!
in that way the mute dancers of festivals may never know
what music is playing over them while they misstep,
as to the lotos-eaters, bless their doomed well-a-day on their isle
they would have never invented sadness without instrument,
that sadness we know,
through the sheer ugliness of all the air-borne poesy.