I can tell by the creases on your face, that you’ve been worrying. You’ve been sitting sullenly, your broken vanity at your feet, wondering “who would love a woman with a million dead in her eyes?” The cold of war has aged you. You curse the dirt that collects beneath your nails, and wish your face were young again, blushing with the color of a child, and free of the lashes delivered by the glares of men. You wish for warmer days.
But you’ll find your way, Maria Braun. In the clouded dust of crumbling debris you will find your object of desire, warming your skin, like an inferno, as it burns down the humble wooden home of your heart. You’ll own everyone, on the grace of your legs, and the sweet of your tongue, and they will all hum a quiet tune of your praise, just before you silence them.