In fields of rye, I watched her sing
And dance around the moonlight ring –
As brilliant as the summer dew
And joyous, as the blissful few
Who hold the sky upon their wing.

In wondrous fields, I felt her wring
My life out with her kiss and bring
Me down from grace, blind, as I flew
In fields of rye.

Her steps, as rubies on a string,
I followed, wishing I could cling
To every instant – and I knew
They’d end, as sure’ as the wind blew
The fleeting, brightly colored Spring,
In fields of rye.

Deroude: (journal note) A rondeau is basically an hymn to freedom, in art as in life: it challenges you to peruse some of the most constrictive poetry rules, into bringing out the feelings that make our kind truly amazing, as liberty and love.
It is like the muzzle of a loaded gun, that constrains the bullet to go into a single direction, with simplicity and elegance that can only be matched by its power. And what can be more elegant in life than the matter of intention, of desire? The sheer drive that gets hold of one person, the struggle inside of them, as the explosion of powder in the chamber of a cannon, the thousand millimeters that are wrong and shall be made right, the seconds away, always away from the right instant, the crushing strength that flows through words and then is harnessed and put into subtle, delicate lyrics.
Woland:(separate journal entry) I stand rebuked. Trying to steer Deroude into believing in destiny has been a horrible mistake. If our challenge were a game of chess, I would be the Grand Master fooled and blinded: because for a good length of time I lived with the gratifying impression that his actions were guided by implacable destiny and, out of a sudden, I caught a glimpse of the truth – his weren’t, mine were. But that’s just one battle.