“Apollo sir”, Rosenshild whispered one evening: “You drive too fast your chariot across the sky”.
The sun was just dipping below the rooftops of the capital city and another day of perfect pleasure had come to an end too soon. Persifal, unable to resist the call of sleep, lay wrapped in a blanket on the floor of the treehouse. A light breeze fluttered the balcony curtain but Rosenshild did not see this.... For some time now he had looked on as brown, to gold, to rose then full-moon silver turned the colour of her skin. And now that Persifal was finally fast asleep, he was consumed both by happiness that she had found such peace, and sadness that he could no longer lose himself in the windows of her eyes.
Sometimes joy can be so overwhelming that it brings with it its own sorrow in the knowledge that it cannot last. No matter how deep he drank at the source of Persifal’s beauty, Rosenshild could not quench his thirst for more... and so even in the midst of the most perfect joy... as wave after wave of desire crashed upon his shore... a tiny part of his heart remained still, burdened with the sadness of an hour when all this must end.
Bitter and sweet, Rosenshild stretched out his hand to stroke Persifal’s golden hair, then blowing out the candle, he pulled the lambswool blanket tight around him and settled down into the darkness of the night.
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