Initiation or Golden Tyrone
By the ocean, along the foamy shore wave, I have a dream, dear Theodore. Your cloak, entwined with the icon of snake fighting, still hangs on the same plaque in your house. You already understand that birth is doomed to glory, bypassing peace. On the day when the dry temple lily blooms, the winds of the Venetian shipyards and the bonfires of the desecrated goddesses will converge into one thing.