Opportunity

You fall at his feet, he will not bend down and will not lift you from the ground. You say his name in love’s warmest tone, he will not turn his head toward you, will not bring a smile to his lips. Your clear, burning tears rain down upon his chest, not even a sigh will rise from his silent throat. Then you will see that dying means turning to stone, only stone. Come, my love! Come, let us melt the stones in the hot bed of our embrace, with the turning of your naked body over my naked body; with the force of your fierce kisses on my skin — a piercing waterfall through the tiny pores to my heart — until the stone of my heart turns in the cage of my chest. The turning of stone upon stone. Until the ringing of a mill’s turning, anew, with the sweet murmur of grains of wheat that have grown soft and soft moment by moment and drifted far from hardness. Come, my love! Come, let us dissolve the stones in the ardent bed of our embrace before we turn to stone ...