Pride

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 almost seems peaceful.

They dont move, so the cracks stay hidden.

A kind of pride.

Years pass over them, waiting.

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.

Till a little seal comes to rub against them,

comes and goes away.

And suddently the rock has an open wound.

I told you, when rocks break, it happens by surprise.

And people, too.

-Dahlia Ravikovitch