Ah, the end of your day Valentine, or should I say Saint Valentine? Are you tossing in your grave now? Jumping like ants on fire in the heavens above?
Tell me Valentine, are you the Saint of Capitalism? Were you not once the Saint of bethrothed couples, of lovers, of happy marriages, of young people? Imprisoned for giving aid to matryrs in prison, converted the jailer by restoring sight to his daughter, and later beaten and beheaded for going against Roman Emperor Claudius’s wishes by marrying young couples.
Look at the people around you, Valentine. What a degrading sight to my eyes. I fear for my sight. Capitalism everywhere. The march of the greenback. Or the Yusof Ishak. Exchanges through greedy hands everywhere, eager to make a quick buck out of you Valentine!
Does anyone remember its sacred origins? Anyone at all?
In Chaucer’s Parliament of Foules I read:
“For this was sent on Seynt Valentyne’s day
Whan every foul cometh ther to choose his mate.”
For the reason that during the Middle Ages in France and England, it was believed that halfway through the Second Month of the year, birds began to pair, the day was specially consecrated to lovers and as a proper occasion for writing love letters and sending love tokens. Both French and English literature of the 14th and 15th centuries alluded to this practice.
The Age of Romanticism has long passed from the face of this earth. In its place stood a saint or a devil, none could tell. Male and female it seems to be. Technology stood in its place. A mask of cold affront and a hole lies where it’s chest is supposed to be.
How I yearn for the Romantic Movement to come alive once more. Like a dying spark in the dry bushes, it could set off a fire that roars. Alas, all are but empty thoughts, empty globets waiting to be filled with liquid gold from the heavens.
There, enough of my verbiage abuse. ‘Tis time to let my dear Valentine rest in peace.