Dearest Swan,

Your eyes are so young: I envy your eyes: ever enlove with

my soul. I divulge particles of life, distant from nature,

despised by many. But pain is so luxurious; where Gospel

augments an impact. I’m crying, love: sipping a fountain-pearl.

How should one explain cruelness: it colors majesty; where

hands befuddle sight, and mothers perish, adrift a volume.

Raise a beat; thump a drum; for treble minds—are thrice

invented. But know the lights: arts, tears, and falcons. Dig,

my love: die and resurrect: something new and indestructible:

wave to wave, and child to parent. Our souls to flight, a

horse’s voice, and God is writing. You’re in the Book of Life,

my love. There you are: waltzing and asking questions: ever

in prayer: a christic soul. And yes, Namaste a mind; where

hearts speak of love, and fingers point a line. Look and see: a

world inverted: fathers hailing, and mothers praising. Indeed,

we love a witted dove: screaming into silence, and fallin’ sky.