I cannot recover from the death of my wife. I lie in bed, laboring for breath, wheezing under the great weight on my chest.
What is this? A bird with brilliant plumage is fluttering at my window, and, as I speak, she lights on the lintel. Her feathers are sky-blue and gold, and her feet and beak are studded with rubies so bright I must squint to see them.
Is that a crown on her little head?