The last pomegranate of the world lay on her plate, Dried and old and shriveled. Yet six months thence had past; A long time in hunger she had dwelled there. Cold as Pluto's hands were the seeds that fell to her tongue, Four of the twelve, a goddess' restraint, indeed. But woe to Proserpina! For she may never return to her Mother's world completely. -Proserpina and Pluto
All icons are made by Girly B Icons Banner and poem by Medea's Vengeance.
