A solo lyre's sound flows along the streets.
“O, my lover,
Why does your mood change faster than the clouds above?”

The audience's face is covered in sorrow.
“Ahh! How I wish she has clear eyes are that quick to
anger and laughter.
And dimples that crease in smiles and frowns.

For the maiden he longs for,
Has a body of alabaster and fingers carved by scalpels.
In her runs blood of gold, and a heart woven from threads.

She has neither eyes nor dimples, lacking even a face.
For she is Aglaea's Garmentmaker.
Merely a demigod's serf.

The gilded dressmaster, the executive of romance.
How resplendent would her mansion be above the
radiant dawning clouds…

Nervously, the visitor opens the doors,
Like parting curtains at a theater.
The one with golden thread in hand is revealed, standing
betwixt figures of stone.

“Lady Aglaea,
I am Apollis's retainer, here for an outfit to take to my master.”

He casts sideways glances as he bows,
For the Garmentmaker he adores is flanking her mistress
Silent as a leaf accompanying a flower.

Slender hands sculpted of ivory pull up the dress's train,
As if with one breath alone,
The maiden will be revived.

“The creation of love and beauty indeed…”
As the visitor thinks thus, his thoughts prickle the golden threads in the room.

“If you wish to embrace such fantasies…”^[1]
She declares thus on the other end of the golden thread—

“You must beware of the scissors that can pierce through the chest.”^[2]