Marc Antony and Cleopatra
shuddering lovers before the cave,
the dire grotto of ordeal
but not by fire this time.
He hands a charm to her:
“Clutch this pebble, o Queen,
lest we get winterkilled
in the Cocytus”.
Whoever outlives the frozen
vault will prove their love is true.
Or else they die: canopic chests
will thenceforth house their ashes
which, if scattered, will transform
into pine-needles, desiccated ones,
mementoes of a sham love.