La lettre du Petit Prince (The letter of the Little Prince)

Dearest,

What, you may ask, that compels me to write. Then I may reply, O, it is the voracious hunger of life that compels me so. For the thousandth time, the essence of life, its ineffable greed, has been taking over my flesh heart by heart. Haruki described this as walking in the depth of the deep sea, where pressure squeeze out from the lung the desire to survive. And it is so to me, as well, a mere mortal. Vi Veri Veniversum Vivus Vici. By the power of truth, I, a mortal, has conquered the universe. But even the most powerful of minds have languished in its attempt to conquer itself. O, my dearest, my most prized jewel, have thou ever been encompassed in such longings?

Still, to me, it seems like that it was only yesterday that I have first met you eye to petal. Hidden beneath the intricate tapestry of color and tenderness lay one of the most beautiful souls I have ever found. Doth thou not become anxious in remembrance? It seemed like the whole world has been conspiring for that moment, that moment of intense watchfulness, that moment of seeing each other’s light under the grace temperance of truth. To what depth our tendrils crossed the boundaries! Betwixt on the fragrance of mutual liberty, we could soar into the vast oceans each other’s mind. Do you not remember that moment when you crossed the threshold, through the crevice of the seemingly small heart, to find that an unadulterated sea of green and sky of blue waiting for you?

For it seems like, you have forgotten.

Soaring in like a gull of the highest caliber, you came, invited, to the forbidden lair of my heart. Even from the first, you have read the tide of my wind, followed the creases of my celestial folds that only the feathers of Jonathan could fold. In, you came, to the depth of my sorrow, and laid, in my purest island, a seed. So you have, on my most treasured island, patted the ground above that little seed. Around it my watchful palms and observant pomegranates grew out their prime. With the moisture you brought, you dewed upon my leaves the most delicate of imaginaries. You have whispered to the ground the secrets of the world, the wonders of the night. And twinkling as the stars themselves, I have stretched my branches heavenwise, toward the future you promised. And amongst the nirvanic flora, wet by the Milky Way, your seed took sprout. Tenderly, yet most profusely, you have urged on its leaves, providing every new cell with your unmistakable beauty. With the evening tide shimmering pink around our ankles, you told it the blind the magic of the sunset, the colors of the dawn, and the warm, intimate blushes of the night. And then, when the clouds opened its eyes to bring forth a new day, the bud came. And on that day, you left.

Hanging on the spider silk of hope that you will return, the rose blossomed, and I assure you that I have not witnessed a beauty such as that rose in the whole spectrum of what the world offered. Leaving the mist of promises, the petals put forth its unearthly beauty, a beauty you have sown. But alas! What have you, but to leave behind the dreariest of prospects?! In the sun that previously gave light, now sent the rays of scorching heat. The flourishes of the island turned, from that moment on, to stokes for fire, burned crisp in the glaring yearning. The palms, the pomegranates, the peach tree under which we took our holy oath, all withered. But none could express the ineffable sorrow that took place on the rose, the flower from Eden. Its leaves faltered and gave way, the stems cracked, and the petals, O, the petals of such magnificence, shriveled, crumpling, crumbling. Oh, not even the event of the crucifixion could have had a more divine destruction of beauty! No thunder could produce a greater sound than of that sound to which the sky divided. No furnace could melt and weld again the broken heart of that Wilde’s prince. Under the very sky that we have seen the stars sprinkle their mirth upon the ocean, I screamed of fury where the most magnificent beauty had to die in my bosom. O how they all fell, as Lucifer fell, the flames! The Swords! The troops of the providence instantaneously losing its wings. Have you seen, have you, in the remains of the path of moral you have left, the night of my sky ablaze with falling angels? The bountiful ocean, that have caressed the so many hidden islands of my comfort, vaporizing under the incinerating heat of hell, have you felt? And in the midst of all, the one rose you have left to wither and die, craving for the tiniest proof of affection, evidence of your return, the now fleeting memory of the times past.

When dawn finally arrived, for she had to retrace her steps ever so frequently at the horror of the event in her coming, the barrenness finally revealed its uncanny form beneath her light, around the black soot of the rose whose seed you planted. When dawn knelt beside the soot of fragrance, she found, as the princess bride also found, that there was the difference between being mostly dead and all dead. And because it was the former that enacted its spell upon the ashen remains, she had but to cry the more. O how the hunchback of Notre Dame was shamed that day! Rain of tears fell while rivers of acid flowed. But none could move the rooted, almost dead, rose of scarlet. In the light of her own reflection, the mistress of dawn cursed the immunity of fate, and laid the spell, that Pearl so trustfully complied and obliged, that nothing scarlet that bears infamy, be moved by any force of nature to oblivion.

Now, my dearest, your rose of your implantation, is lying under the windscreen of my handcraft. Elsewhere it would not go, and so would I be, if it weren’t for the most inexplicable nature of survival. I donned my scarf, fastened my star-engraved sword, and left B612. It is said that the trail of iced tears that simmered in my wake could be seen at times to the loneliest observers of the evening sky as a sparkle of line at the horizon. Now, I have gone out, and neither do I know if I will be granted to meet you before I may return to your rose in the help of the sandsnake. I hope this letter may arrive to your disposal before I do.

Sincerely.

Votre Petit Prince.

#antoniostark #fiction