Rosary

Recently you descried that the hands of mine were full of crimson scars, like the beads of a rosary. ”What are these wounds on your palm?” you asked. ”Were they caused by the elisabethian roses of your garden?” I said nothing, just smiled blushingly, but then later, while you fell asleep, I leaned closely and whispered my secret in your ears: „In fact, all of these are stigmatas of our love. But possessing them makes me happy; I wear them proudly.”