Ina Rousseau

Somewhere in Eden, after all this time, does there still stand, abandoned, like a ruined city, gates sealed with grisly nails, the luckless garden? Is sultry day still followed there by sultry dusk, sultry night, where on the branches sallow and purple the fruit hangs rotting? Is there still, underground, spreading like lace among the rocks a network of unexploited lodes, onyx and gold? Through the lush greenery their wash echoing afar do there still flow the four glassy streams of which no mortal drinks? Somewhere in Eden, after all this time, does there still stand, like a city in ruins, forsaken, doomed to slow decay, the failed garden?