And then it seems as if the heavens contained only the most delicate weight (les poids delicats du ciel). And you, my beloved, are floating there in the clouds weightless, and wingless.
Yes, you are a beauty-a classic beauty- du temps ancien. Croatian to the eye and hand, Sicilian in haughtiness, stoic in German fashion- and universal, like Mother Earth itself in your ability to love. You are the lover who plays on muted strings, to paraphrase my idols Knut Hamsun and Henri Miller. I blush just to offer any passing criticism- of my goddess. And you, I sense that you accept me wholly- no ifs or buts or maybes. Alors, a quoi bon de se dicuter? Je t'aime profondement, je suis a toi seule.