BORIS GLIKMAN

It is the dawn of a gorgeous autumn day. I am running down the stairs, quickly and excitedly, with my neighbours following me.

We all want to see Venus. She has just landed in the back yard.

There she is, lying on the ground, trampling the bed of roses.

A flock of cherubs with stubby wings flit around her, welcoming that from which all Love springs.

I approach with reproach, ardently wanting to know why my romantic endeavours were never blessed with her favours.

I peer hard, trying to see through her facade, striving to behold for the first time the secret concealed from all mortals, so that my name may shine out in glory for ages to come as the one who gazed at the true visage of love.

But her expression remains opaque, inscrutable, leaving me no closer to discovering the secret of amour.