To the Hyacinth Girl in the Hyacinth Garden,

Let it be known that the sailor has not become something lost to the sea.

The dull and empty sea, which now so gracefully embraces the red rock, offers no shadow, and no relief. But no matter, as our Fisher King is fertile and so is his kingdom, for nature is a funny thing. And as for nature, should I, by some cruel trick, have the mind of a poet and the body of a butcher, then I should still love you as I do now, without measure, for our fate, which cannot be taken from us, is a gift, and so is the future.

     My own Orlando,

Eternal and yet so graceful.

Our future, although there the hemisphere is freezing in winter, is not quite apart from shattered glass of the chapel, which is bound and burnt together; but there you find comfort, (or, at least, there comfort is should you need to find it). The stories of thousands, in a matrimony of stained glass, comprehend by the sun, are ceaseless and unfathomed.

And let it be known that, like the glass, the dust will not, and cannot, fade like the freckles on your skin in the winter, where it is freezing. For, it is a bitter trick of nature, (not that of the poet and the butcher), but that of the crack in tea cup, and the chasm. But our friend, the music, has a melody sweeter than a grape upon the pallet, and it is endless too.

 She dwells beauty – beauty that must die

But Joy, whose hand will never touch his lips,

Bids that the sea cease its cry.  

For let it be known that, although the sands will not set us free,

The sailor must refuse to die

As nature is our melody,

And our tea cup does  little more than serve us tea,

For you and I,

Well, let it be known.