The vault opens itself at dawn. The calyx of an Arctic alpine forget-me-not reopens for an enchanting glory of the sunshiny dreams, because of the eternally august poem, that reads lenient and benignant. Throughout the day: there is up there a paradisiacal flight of all halcyon seraphim, singing through the stoicism, eudemonia of many celestial dreamers. Under the sun: a rhythm in wings of butterflies. After evenfall: the paradise closes itself. The springtide has gone to bed in aestival splendor. In addition overnight a balmy sempiternity sleeps as well. Here below a sensitive firefly flies, above so ravishing earth. In danger owing to the raveners of the night. Indeed spared thanks to the sheen of Luther’s star. The earth becomes a dazzling hereafter. It remains not far from June sparks, the little fire.