Lovers of Valdaro
The olive trees flutter in the wind, oily butterflies in the breeze’s contemptuous grasp; they swing, swing, sway, all the way as Athenian figures by the sunset.
Deep in the dust, buried by age and lust, are two white charred things:
Bodies holding dearly, in the pit of the earth, they spend the wholeness of time Together; rubbing against minute bacteria, decomposing slowly in the fresh cool ground.
They are called lovers; they’re called those whom share love, but they know nothing; or is love death, and all that comes right before the suffering of the end?
Love is not death, it is doom; to love is to hate to love and hate to not find it; These two have no breathe, no lips to kiss the other’s breast, or slide deep into their mouth; no hands of flesh to grope with hunger and desire, with knowledge of the other.
I hate them. I HATE them. For all their demise and turning bones; despite the earth being their home, and the only things that are for them to love being afterlife and flames of hell or chains of heavenly celibacy, for once and at one time they did love.
Perhaps they didn’t: maybe as the town was to be torched and in wrecked vengeance be torn from the world, they simply held the other for the sake of the moment and spoke nothing of intimate things; told no secrets and fears; strung no tales or spun no frills laced and born of their most sacred satisfactions.
yet still, the chance remains: love was once theirs; one day, as they walked beside each other, they looked at the other and saw that they were good; one day they came together and made themselves to feel love for a short chemical time.
Now I look, and for now I see, but they do not, and that makes all thoughts moot.
I take my leave; the lovers must need the rest.