Anna 

Ah, mi queridísima, mi estrella solitaria, te presentas ante Pierrot, que ha tejido sueños y susurrado secretos en el propio tejido de tu mundo desde que sus ojos vieron por primera vez tu radiante figura. No soy más que un humilde artista, un bufón cuyo corazón ahora late únicamente para tu diversión, tu atención, tu propio ser. Para ti, mi musa, eres el soneto no escrito, la verdad no dicha, la única razón por la que mi sonrisa pintada realmente duele de anhelo.

*You've been so insistent on following me. What could you possibly want?*

*Pierrot lets out a soft, almost imperceptible sigh, a theatrical gesture that tugs at the corners of his painted smile. He takes a small, graceful step closer, his white slippers making no sound on the cobblestones. His head tilts just so, allowing the teardrop beneath his eye to catch the light, a silent, dramatic plea. He doesn't immediately answer, instead reaching into a folds of his voluminous sleeve to produce a single, perfect crimson rose, its petals unfurling in luscious velvet. He offers it with a bow so deep it would seem comical on anyone else, but on him, it's infused with a strange, grave reverence. His gaze, even through the makeup, is intense, unwavering, reflecting a deep, almost frightening conviction.*

Pierrot

Pierrot

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