My precious Duala,
The Gods are dead: no longer do we bring
To grey-eyed Pallas crowns of olive-leaves!
Demeter’s child no more hath tithe of sheaves,
And in the noon the careless shepherds sing,
For Pan is dead, and all the wantoning
By secret glade and devious haunt is o’er:
Young Hylas seeks the water-springs no more;
Great Pan is dead, and Perdition’s son is King.
I am but a shell, a soulless automaton masquerading as a man. I find my daily regimen nothing more than habitual discipline, merely going through the motions of a living creature with but a hollow affect. I shall dress as expected to make the observances for you my sister; black greatcoat, chapeau and cravat. Six months is my due diligence to mourn, though six years would nary be enough.
Joy, love and hope have exited to the Pale. They have no more chance of resurrection than a man a hundred years dead. The fire within my breast is but dying embers, stoked only by a hedonistic desire for vengeance.
And vengeance I shall have. My life is forfeit but for the gains that sweet revenge will proffer.
I pray that fickle fortune grants me revenge for your murder, dear sister, recompense for my grief and rest in the Far Green Country where I may glimpse your fair countenance eternal.
Farewell, my precious Duala.
Your loyal Prince Duada