These my offerings,
tiny and fragile, they must take root
in stubborn soil. Fertilize them.
Give them shape. Twisted they may grow,
but their trunks must be strong.
They must reach through the night.
They must be of their ground...
Some of these poe...
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No magic philtre have we drunk, no crazy coincidence have we come through. No notorious circumstance have we yet endured. No night's blindfold has yet covered either of our sets of eyes, no masquerade has made our dance complete. No stars have appointed our paths to cross, our paths wound parallel along their own axis - and were they to cross, it would be no remarkable thing. No crystal castle, no mountains mist, no consecration of blood -
and yet! how haunting is the image of your midnight eyes, nearly black, black as the cave, flickering shadows illusions displaying dreams against stone and earth off some great, unimaginable height.
How desperate the passion in your limbs your shuddering ecstasy, fear joined at desire's hips, how bewitching your noble attempt to hold still in the face of the willow lashes. Your suffering seems that of a hero, or of a god. Even these signs alone seem enough, despite the silence of the oracles. Enough. You possess me. My soul must hence see a different dawn.
