"Why do you still love me?", I asked you once, and you called me a "silly girl", and smiled. But sometimes, at night, when I hold you against my breasts, I hope against hope that there is a reason you still till my soil, that like me, you are waiting for next growing season, for a crop of figs so delicious, the seeds will fill you with a joy beyond death, a taste of immortality to be chewed and digested.
"Success is up to God", you always told me, each shepherding season. The spotted ones sprouted children like flowers. If I am a small scrub-bush, then let me at least bear one small flower.
http://www.mechon-mamre.org/p/pt/pt0130.htm
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