Angra do Heroismo; 1944

Autumn. Full moon night. Barely visible on the horizon, Stars spell your name in the dark sky. I can read all the letters. They are like carving on a tree, uneven, enduring, deeply etched and only seen by one who looks for such things. The earth is patient in its turnings. Quietly, I, too wait for a winter night to show another set of stars. The houses of heaven will advance; the message, two names, will emerge. The night sky will tell the tale to those of us who look for such things.

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