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This is a story about you.

It's no use Mother dear, I can't finish my weaving. You may blame Aphrodite, soft as she is; she has almost killed me with love for that girl.

You may forget but let me tell you this: someone in some future time will think of us.

Awed by her splendor, stars near the lovely moon cover their own bright faces when she is roundest and lights earth with her silver.