The statue of Apollo stood in the museum´s hall,
in the midst of the sculptures of the brightest antiquity-time.
The man visited it with the clearest Arthurian grail,
so that Phoebus awoke, with sheen of the first moon and star.
That Apollo was a friend of the museums warden,
who knew in moony dreams the petrified tears for ever.
Apollo in the dazzling stone meant a whiff of the time.
Nobody felt like eternally tender morn – a dream.
However amusing miracle of midnight happened.
The Phoebus became like a German-human, the soft man,
when Apollo was awakened through the enchantment.
And his heartlet was manlike as well as so immortal.
Apollo was able to think and muse such an oracle.
And he sent meek sagacity into the gentle spring.
The oracle showed only worlds like tenderly made pearls.
Apollo and this oracle had the souls from star-wind.
He was in position to dream like eternal dreamer.
His dreameries had epiphany of the hot wings-tides.
The souls of the divine sweetheart could bewitch hearts and tear,
perpetuate thus – softly the spell-like feast for the eyes.
The God could write poetries such night ovidian offspring.
He adored the spell of moonlet and tender shooting stars.
The enchanted distant night shone dreaming, gleaming, glinting.
His soul was close the gracefulness of the benign homeland.
The envoy of Elysium wanted to philosophize.
The ontology of miracle became most lovely.
The naiads became fair she-friends of the eternal things.
The celestial eudemonia became just so dreamy.
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