My darling, I’m at a loss of words at the splendour of your magnificence. The arid wastes of my vocabulary lie barren and unable to bring forth any adjective worthy of your ethereality. And perhaps that is mercy, for I am merely a mortal.

For not even King David with his harp could psalm you into being, nor the songs of King Solomon ever capture your essence. For what you are is a mystery that the spirit itself could never reveal to flesh and bone.