by Frances Anne
(London, UK)

(from an original screenplay)

Corvin: The futile ambitions of a man and his army is a magnum built for sanity and a crutch made for dubious odds.

Elena: And the cove of his fitted armour is the signature of the slain. There is no master for the fools of our time.

Corvin: For which the cry of a fallen falcon is as deafening as the silence of the mute deep in his slumber. Magdalena sings the battle symphony.

Elena: The melody is a mountain as it is an ocean. It's plain as the wastelands but it's rough as the canyons. It moves. It breathes.

Corvin: It stays. It leaves. It centers. It weaves. As the skylarks depart from the brethren of kings, Magdalena takes what no man desires.

Elena: The byrons kneel back as the horizon cracks open. Her voice echoes, turning darkness into lightning. Magdalena sets fire on criminal passion.

Corvin: When the stars disband, falling out of stellar pattern, when the lines on the shore forge the curves of the blind poet...

Elena: When the twilight caress mimic the roar of thunder, when the fall of the rain halts into a hover...

Corvin: And when the crawl of time reaches the ground from which she lays her Jupiter, Magdalena the angel will satisfy the hunger of generations.

Elena: The breaking dawn in the polar midnight shall rise like the sun of pandorum. There are no lies...

Corvin: There are no goodbyes.

Elena: For when the tears carve a trail back to home, we are never alone.

Corvin: But we're never here too soon. So shall we whisper under different skies...

Elena: "Cradle me Magdalena in your arms of stone..."

Corvin: "Cradle me Magdalena under the calm of your moon."

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