Lips receding to the crease of stilled waters, underneath the bosom of the moon. The tide is forever in quivering forms. Yet there is beauty in the way the figures sit, a calm in the exciting exercise for life’s sake. Time is forever in turning sails and moments constructed for the weathering of space and travel when harsh Squall perceived the deluged. Where are these inexhaustible Dispositions, these sounds to first utter the song of life. I want to hear this Song of Songs and Ballet to the grace of Ouayet caressing hymns. Listen as it wanders into the ears of man and whispers a prayer of Tolerance for the Middangeard yet harshly speak to the soul. Don’t lie in your speech and yet don’t comfort the weak. Be as you are and your voice shall sing in the tune of navigation until the sun reaches the moon. Siyabonga for how I see you full and Siyabonga for how you return from distant stars and a form I can love to learn. I hear the Song of Songs and now I collapse to the weight of its existence, this is the allure of your frequency and the power of your youthful butterfly. May the sail cast shadow of your safe returning to the Enterprise of a slight smile.