The Paradise Prophecy

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Before they met, he knew nothing of the book, or the story surrounding it.

He hadn’t known about its size or the scope of its contents or the blackening skin of its pages or the ornate, nearly perfect penmanship that adorned them. He hadn’t known that it was housed in Prague, in one of the collections of a Holy Roman Emperor, patron of the arts and practicing alchemist. He hadn’t known that a hundred and sixty donkeys had been slaughtered to further its creation.

And he was completely unaware of the seven missing pages.

The pages that would lead to his undoing.

But much to his regret, the poet learned these things and more on a visit to Florence-there in a small villa in Arcetri, where he first met the astronomer, a pale, bearded old man condemned to spend the last years of his life as a prisoner in his own home.

This was long before the evil days, before the darkness amid the blaze of noon. Back when the poet’s life had been truly blessed, when day-to-day living had not only been pleasurable, but was often exhilarating. When he was filled with the freshness of spirit that comes with youth and intellect and an unyielding belief in newly formed ideals.

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