Madam of pink hue,
I’ve located and lassoed several wandering suns while you were sleeping; tied them to the moon with ropes of diamonds. They’re waiting for you, for night to re-emerge from day’s fading illumination, so we may sing to your gratification the odes of our collective longing. We all yearn for your fragrance. To the point that they’ll willingly leave the rest of the universe forever blackened if you’d grant us the chance to forever light your sky with clouds of love that flow from the heart of my brass instrument.
Jonathan M. Emerson