I tell you, even rocks crack,
and not because of age.
For years they lie on their backs
in the heat and the cold,
so many years,
it seems peaceful. 
They don’t move, so the cracks stay hidden.
A kind of pride.
Years pass over them, waiting there.
Whoever is going to shatter them 
hasn’t come yet.
And so the moss flourishes, the seaweed whips around,
the sea pushes through and rolls back—
the rocks seem motionless.
And suddenly the rock has an open wound.
I told you, when rocks break, it happens by surprise.
And people, too.
                                      -- Dahlia Ravikovitch