O Muse, grant me the power divine, of heaven’s soul to speak. To convey in words what makes the oceans stir, mountains move and spheres collide. No mere task for mortals to accomplice, with earthly fragility, Again, shape O Muse the flesh of this tongue, be now still to wag with divinity.
From an ancient time and a distant land, yet in our common repose. The face of beauty was beheld by one, she who entangled cities and launched ships. Anno Domini 1997, witness the dethronement of this potentate prescribed eternal.
Arise now and see the ethereal shine, the splendor, the scintillate gleam of this, our new Helen. She who posses in a single smile, an illuminous hope that clears the murky depth of the river Styx. Behold eyes, which with the power of Midas, puissant as the disk of Ra, glowing from the luster of life. Refracting the peace of a still pond amidst the deepest forest, pulling each within the amulet gaze of her optical sanctuary. Repair now to bask with the comfort of her countenance, effectual glory spread, this radiance of joy for the benefit of all.
From whence does the new Helen derive this alluring grace so sublime? In this modern age, one suspects there to be a recipe for construct. A pattern for man to make that which is in the realm of the gods. Wrought not of hubris, this flower springs from fertile felicity. Touched, crafted, created and converged by the Heavens, this benefaction, bestowed. Like the moon, a mother, her pull is stronger than the tides and her gravity no less. Makes all who know her, truly blessed.