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(That) is who we are.
Today we worship in pairs,
As the mating birds.
Custodians of the martyr’s lot
We are. True or untrue, we seek not.
Only that our love fested hearts,
Victims of cupid’s purpled darts,
Be not lost or hurt.
Even if our passion-weakened hearts
Be lost, we sorrow not.
For so our bishop of Intaramna
Lost a head, to the blood-thirsty streets
Of the love-thirsty Via flaminia.
Today,
Red rose arrows fly around.
Long, combed eyelids flutter in anticipation,
As maidens wait to be hit by one,
Or watch in muted envy
As sister maidens gather loots.
Thus,
The fable devotees
Is who we are.
(And) today we worship in pairs,
(Just) as the mating birds.
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