And the little prince grew a beard.

Suspended in nothingness,
compass of no avail in spatial wasteland.

Seeking a visa to your planet.

The little republican prince
metamorphs.

He longs to be:

River in your deserts
and witness of your growth,
meandering on that bed,
sinking into your depths,
and be a source of life.

Cottage in your forest,
where you can repair
as the weather turns ungentle.

Rain in march,
Shade in august,
and a fire in your winter.

A pilgrim in your vast spaces,
a hermit worshipping
at all your altars,
my goddess;
the child who seeks your hand
to hold mine,
and the man to hold yours
when you need one.

To be your cello,
and sing the melodies you bring,
to be the hand wielding the bow,
and pluck the symphonies of your sighs,

And more...