I tell you, even rocks crack,
and not because of age.
For years they lie on thier backs
in the heat and the cold,
so many years,
it seems peaceful.
They dont move, so the cracks stay hidden.
A kind of pride.
Years pass over them, waiting there.
Whoever is going to shatter them
hasn’t come yet.
And so the moss flourishes, the seaweed whips around,
the sea pushes through and rolls back—
the rocks seem motionless.
And suddently the rock has an open wound.
I told you, when rocks break, it happens by surprise.
And people, too.

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