Eight stars shine down, though it is full day;
a good day in summer, when herbs are in bloom
to perfume gentle breezes with citrus and mint.
A deep lake lies here that's never felt dryspell,
nor parched in a sandstorm, nor froze in the dark.
A woman at work straddles the shoreline,
one foot on water, one knee to ground.
Naked, all beauty, bent to her task,
she holds earthen pitchers, one in each hand.
They seem simple things, everyday items,
yet from them she pours forth liquid like sapphires:
water enough to fill heaven's ocean
and then rain on deserts till they are rich fields.
 

The Hanged Man
Death
Temperance

The Devil
The Tower
The Star

The Moon
The Sun
Judgement

The World