Most of the women who inhabited the Garden of Eden were getting
pregnant in fall, because they were taught the earth was
gestating with fruits and their womb was like the earth. This
way the population increased rapidly and the hunger grew with
the same speed. The earthy hunger, that is, a disease much more
dangerous and mind-attacking than the learned doctors could even
dare to predict. Yet the Garden was ignorantly sleeping every
night and the women's wombs, like the earth, grew heavy with
fruits, gestating full-season.
Beneath the branches rich with green unearthy smell, in their yet
earthy beds of grass from where the snakes of sin were lurking,
the young boys of the Eden's mothers were growing to become Abel
and Cain, or only Abel, or only Cain. A matter to be decided
upon at midnight, by Eve, the wanderer and the mistress of
heart-dictated directions.
Eve was a beautiful young woman by then. An all-loving mother of
all the wombs and all their fruits. One time I saw her in the
distance, wandering in the Park. That's when she became part of
my painting. She looked so unprotectedly naked and so shiny
beneath the apple trees' arch, yet it could have been my eyes. A
statue carved in flesh maybe Rodin's while thinking of Camille
her skin the color of the sand, so young and shiny like the rays
of the New Moon.
Pages:
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25