The image of Ophelia floating serenely at the surface of a lake, at the end of a road leading away from you. Below the saddened leaves of a willow, and while the water covers her serenely white body by a transparent glue of death. The lake’s depth does not hide the blackened infinity beneath her. Above the azure sky a sea gull cries. A full gray cloud drifts by in silent mourning. Invisible silver stars surrounding like a saint’s nimbus fixed to Ophelia’s dumb stare. How loving now she looks! How venerous her glazing eyes now expect my kisses. How resigned her body lies down for my embrace. I lean forward over her soaked and bloated face, pale as the night’s full moon, and stare down at the veil of water separating her from my warm lips. In the mirror of the lake’s surface below me, I now see myself, almost as pale in my own reflection, but heartened, affected, touched by the winterly expression of her face that as always seems to be fixated on my mouth. I do not dare and touch her now, afraid of her silence, weary to break the layer of clear liquid that holds her enwrapped forever, preserving this moment, this uncracked image of beauty. Never was she more beautiful, never so far from me. Laying down before me, her self in this lake, at which side I sit kneeled. I reveer her love as never before I was capable, her love that is now lost. Yet, I myself was drawn to this edge like a sea gull, before an endless depth that is so shallow, like Ophelia alike. Her presence like a wax statue in a marble tomb of red stone. My hand stretched out in a sanctuous awe toward her distant heart. Ophelia.