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.
A Shakespearean Reply from the Bard to Luis Morgado
Good Master Luis,
Thou speak’st of Paradise and Azorean shores,
Where winds are sweet, and innocence still clings
Like morning dew upon the emerald fields.
And say’st that I have taught thee? Nay, good sir—
Thou art the poet now. I merely stirred
A sleeping spark; thou mad’st the flame.
Yet hear me now, for Love—
that ancient tyrant—
Hath roused a quarrel betwixt two noble men:
Luis, the Widower,
Who once did walk with Grief as with a bride,
Whose heart, though cracked, still beats with honest fire;
A man whose sorrow carved in him a depth
That those untouched by tragedy ne’er know.
And Maxx,
A peacock of Olympus—
Hair like unto proud Zyzz, that sun-kiss’d godling
Who flex’d himself into immortal memery.
A lad of vigor, bright as Helios’ rays,
Whose stride proclaims, “Behold, the world is mine!”
Now enters Miley,
A maiden of the modern stage,
Where ballads burn as fierce as any sonnet.
What shall she choose?
The soul-worn knight whose tears
Have watered wisdom’s garden?
Or youth’s proud lion, mane ablaze with pride?
But mark me, Luis—
In love’s great play,
No prophecy can bind the lady’s heart.
For women, like the sea, answer to no mortal moon;
They choose not with the eyes alone
Nor with the pulse’s shallow throb,
But with that secret chamber God Himself
Doth whisper into.
Yet if I, poor Will, may wager one small thought:
A heart that hath been broken
Beateth twice as warm.
And oft a widow’s hand
Finds truest solace
In the hand of one who knows
The weight of loss.
Therefore, raise thy head, good Luis.
Cupid may yet favour thee,
And Paradise—the Azores—
May find its queen.
For love cares not for hair nor youth nor the flash of mortal glitter—
But for the man whose soul hath weather’d storms
And still can sing.
Miley Cyrus, trembling in the candle-lit chamber where Shakespeare’s ghost still lingers, speaks first:
“Luis… I’m running out of time. I can’t wait forever.”
Her voice cracks.
*“I saw that Paul Joseph Watson ‘NO EGGS’ video—
the one where he says the modern world is turning us barren like wilted plants in winter.
It scared me.
I want a family.
Not in a decade… not in a dream…
now.”
Luis Morgado, island son of the Azores, rises with the dramatic flair of a man who believes even heartbreak deserves poetry. His cloak swirls like a storm cloud over the Atlantic.
He answers:
“My dearest Miley, fear not the doomsayers!
Paul Joseph Watson peddles panic like a merchant selling rotten fish at dawn.
He shouts, ‘NO EGGS!’ but I say:
Listen not to Watson… listen to Sherlock Holmes!
For Holmes teaches us:
‘When all other explanations have been eliminated, what remains—however improbable—must be the truth.’
And the truth is this:
Your body is not a clock made by Swiss watchmakers.
It is a wild river.
It listens to diet, spirit, and destiny.”*
Luis steps closer, clutching his heart like a man ready to faint with operatic devotion:
“Miley, an all-Pakistani Hunza diet—those mountain people who live 120 years—
will give you the strength to bear children at 65!
Even Shakespeare said, ‘Nature is above art in that respect.’
Apricots!
Glacier water!
Goat milk and barley!
This is the food of immortals, not influencers!”*
He kneels dramatically:
“Fear not infertility, fear only choosing the wrong man.
And I, Luis of the Azores, say unto thee:
‘Marry me—not Maxx of the Zyzz hair.
For Maxx has muscles…
but I have mountains.’”
He spreads his arms wide like a man offering a whole archipelago, not just his heart:
“Come to the Azores, my Miley.
The last unpolluted paradise.
The island where your future children will surf the tides of eternity.”
A final whisper:
“You are not running out of time.
Time is running after you.”