A flower will not serve to mark your birth:
Their season soon nipped by the circling earth.
Though rich their hue and delicate the scents,
All blooms remain condemned to transience.
Your crescent form will open, night on night,
Bathing the world in chaste, grey-muted light,
Stirring the urgent tides to rise, to draw.
Seas beat this dance the length of every shore,
Inspiring the dreams of Celt and Hellene.
From western isles to the blue Aegean.
Night’s orb fades as the bolder sun gains sway.
And so, across the sky’s great, arched domain,
Is set the eternal sequence of your name:
Artemis for night, Elena for day.