Three moons, swollen and swallowed, have marked the sky since last these eyes were warmed with words from thee. Terse and unbending in the ruffian wind... prow, mast, and rudder to his unsteady crew... only I, of all donkeys, know the willows that weep in your heart. My days unfold uncounted in the courtyard that has become my cloister. Arising at dawn, and following the sun’s course like a somnambulistic sprout, I wander from corner to corner, until my shrunken world slouches to shadow, and I mourn ‘til morn tugs at my tether anew. Sleepless, when the moon is full, I sit at my window, comforted that on the arms of the sea my sovereign espies the same orb in the same sky, and borrows, as the moon borrows light from the sun, strength from the star in his life that is me. My dearest of dear, mon cher Blurtseau, the prince importunes daily, promising my release from this courtly captivity, if only I will admit his advances. But fear not, mon cher, that the sad Soiselle who scribbles this assurance is any other than the one who showered you with kisses the day you departed, that dismal day, when the sun fled the sky to take refuge in my heart, granting me the courage and strength to stave off the dark tolling of these dungeon days…”