I kneel before you, noble patritions, and beg your favour. You see before you a humble woman with nothing to call her own. I am weak and wretched, dependant on another’s kindness. In my youth, my flesh was as weak as Eve’s and I sinned without redemption. But now the dark waters have closed over my head and I find myself in an inky prison. I sinned so much that God himself spat with rage and appeared before me. The Seraphs burned my eyes and tore me down from the pedestal I set myself on. I lie here weak and defenceless, waiting for someone to take pity on me.
And then he came to me. He spoke soft words and dribbled honey into my ears. He cupped my face in his artist’s hands and turned it to the sky. He handled me with such delicacy; it was as if he was holding a china cup full to the brim. He kissed the tears from my eyes. His full warm lips pressed gently to my cold lids and I felt his summer breezes spread throughout my body. The blush returned to my beasts. No longer was I an icy tundra, I was becoming his own private Eden.
My roses grow for him alone.