Page:Storm Over Paris.pdf/123

Eric, still you have not come. Why are the white blooms faded on my tree? And why do they drift so helplessly down to the ground? There is no lightning in the sky, nor thunder, nor storm. There is not the faintest whisper of wind in the quiet air. Wait, do not fall, you delicate white blossoms. Don't you see that at the other side of the Seine the sky is reddening? Come, Eric, come with me to the ripening fields of grain, there at the very edge of the horizon. Don't you see how the stalks of grain bow like waves in the wind, how they bend back and forth as though intoxicated? They are bending before the sharp edge of the harvester's scythe, they are yearning for love and annihilation...

"At the horizon's edge, dark clouds are lowering. There is nowhere to flee, Eric. The earth is vaporous and hot, the air drunk with desire...Come, my harvester, cut me down, annihilate me with the scythe of your passion. The clock strikes ten and you are not here. On the floor above I hear impatient knocks at the door. Hurrying footsteps, happy laughter. Maybe two lovers are meeting. But do not tremble so, my heart; do not admit any doubt.

"From the floor above I hear the clatter of dishes. Is someone setting a table for a beloved? And I hear voices. as though someone is reciting the Sabbath grace. Yes, today is Friday, the Sabbath eve. In my father's house the Sabbath candles are burning-maybe they are already dying out. Tiny candle-flames, flickering and spluttering, expiring after their single leap into the great and joyous world... No, that is not true. The world is not joyous. It glows only in the reflection of your light. When you are not here everything is sad and dim. Burn high, my flame of love, illuminate everything around you, throw forth your rays in a vast circle. Do not be miserly with your light.