And consciousness comes out from the bowels of earth; its wet womb, with the fragile vessel of her thoughts in hand, ready to sail abroad… Cristina Francov, 2012

“We will build it here”, she said, her young face lit by her angelical smile.

He looked at the mountain, above, and below them: the sheer vertical rock, down to the lonely valley.

He looked at his lover, smiled: their fortress would be impregnable.

She took his hand, suddenly serious, taking him in, deep, with her eyes.

“Then,” she said, “we will wait for eternity.”