'tis no grave my lady, our parting for what is death but rebirth and rebirth but transcendence all but stations on the journey of our palpitating hearts? Fret not, for even expired my body interred below the soft covers of our beloved mother, burnt to cinders and scattered to the winds, or fed in pieces to the wild birds of the high mountains yet will I love you as certain as thou held'st thine head against my breast, thine mouth against mine own in absolute and profound surrender and sure as I laide on thy pillow mine head, quotidian inquietudes and the half of our compact fashioned as a hollow heart for safety's keeping Shed no tear for me for what of distance betwixt kindred souls? No... 'tis no grave my lady that calls for black and mourning, this brief respite from our travail but a cradle for maturity a chance, to look afresh and reflect, introspect, perform the works of God God who loves us all but most resplendently thee through the vessel that I am Thine eidolon in aeternum, ekkis [22-I-2014]