Like a monk, chanting, my voice filling the echo chambers of the old library, humming your incantations. I wear the night on, and it suits me well. My soul, transfixed, rocked by the fireplace embers; your eyes, my illuminations.

And my song is unlike any song. It starts as a thread of my voice and then it grows gradually into something that has a separate life, a responsability of its own, a reason to be. It could be mistaken for a psalm or a prayer, but it goes deep, much deeper than any psalm ever heard. 

I will sing until dawn, most probably.

Sitting by this axis of yours, measuring the mystery of your symmetries, the science of your beauty.

Fruit of passionate observation and note-taking, tireless calculation, sweetly obsessed devotion, unfatigable dreaming. Yes, the long-concealed secrets, at last revealed:

The final equations of your walking, the variables of your balance, your ankles' diminute rotation angles, the exact tilt of your head, the definitive blend of blues.

All is there, and this monk is proud. And tired. Up there, in the library towers, over his workspace, he allows himself to drift into slumber.

Then, the twilight, and the lovers' souls will keep on criss-crossing by the first shades of the morning.

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