I am one word short of words enough to fit to describe, to launch my thousand ships approximating your shores. Wisdom and certainty, ordained to the first born, are your compass to sail, coast and assail latitudes with longing to grow. I will surely fall short. No doubt, but that which you seldom show, leaves less than a trace in your path taking. What you want, you know. Take me to task on all I set for you, and you wind me up in a knot while in the making. Push back the curtain of certain beliefs and they grow in the light in so many refrains. Sifting sands, tidal pools and falling stars mark the force you take to prove your ground, to chart your course, to settle down. Within the axis of the whirlwind of your day, twilight subsides in silence regained. Your poise, your stance, your posture in the romance of a searching understanding of the winds, the tides and even in the movement of the starry skies. What have I to lie before you in a line, but that which you need not proclaim, when I breathlessly excerpt from pure you, Sofia, what will the future bring?