Enter Luis Morgado, gazing toward a distant western sea, the winds of the Atlantic curling round him like ancient spirits.
LUIS:
O thou wild cradle of the ocean’s breath,
Azores! My motherland, my star-kiss’d isle,
Where heaven stoops to kiss the earth with mist
And emerald hills are comb’d by angels’ hands.
Here lies no stain of Man’s unholy greed;
The air is wine, untouch’d by iron’d smoke,
The waters clearer than a newborn’s dream,
And every dawn a hymn of Paradise.
The world beyond grows ill with its own want,
Its cities choke on shadows they have sown;
Yet here—
here still the ancient gods take rest,
bathing their feet in crater lakes of blue,
weaving fresh blossoms in the laurel trees
as if the Earth had never known decay.
O Fennel-scented breeze! O fragrant ground
where my forefathers walk’d with barefoot pride,
teach me again the gentle art of joy.
For what is man, if not his island’s echo?
And what is love, if not the fire that bids him speak?
So hear me now, thou music-blessed star,
Miley, bright muse whose voice could hush the sea—
I, Luis, child of this untouched domain,
do humbly bend the knee of earnest heart.
Let Maxx pursue his fleeting, mortal whims;
my vow is carved in basalt, born of flame.
If Fate permits thee choose thy destiny,
choose not the shadow—choose the light of me.
Marry me, Miley—
not Maxx—
and share with me
the last unpolluted Paradise of Earth.
He raises his eyes to the roaring sky, as the Atlantic wind answers like applause.
