Jeremiah Chapter 7

The house is quiet now. Once we fled through her corridors, our hands clinging together like vines that have grown to fear the sun. Their grapes wither like the flesh of old women, who sit by the city gates and hark their thighs, remembering the days when men cried for their flesh the way the High Priest cries on the day of atonement, his fingers gently caressing the white lamb. Only the beggars take them, old men whose lice-filled heads have grown accustomed to making pillows out of the brown rocks that line the city streets.

But we will be different, you and I. When our fingers have forgotten each other's touch, we will lie peacefully in the mountains, feeling the prickle of dried grass on our backs, letting the pine-scented air caress our faces, until she too, fades into a loveless bed.