O verdant cherry farm,
iron gates secluding your delicacies,
I depend upon you. Such is your lot,
the seat of the fruit of life-giving elixir.
Twelve years your tender patches
Were nourished with circumspection;
Growing in summers until crimson rain
Scuttled from you regularly.
But once, that ancient serpent
Subtle of gait with fleshly fervency
Lurking within a domicile
Broke open your enclosure.
Now cherries have been stolen,
The whole field bruised incessantly.
Experience springs eternal,
Thorns entwined upon each plant.
O field I pray. Good harvest,
when your cherries blossoming ripen
and at no earlier occasion,
while farm mourns its bruised crop.
But with profounder hue,
This is one morose certainty.
For light is easy darkened, but inside
Midnight blackness remains so.
iron gates secluding your delicacies,
I depend upon you. Such is your lot,
the seat of the fruit of life-giving elixir.
Twelve years your tender patches
Were nourished with circumspection;
Growing in summers until crimson rain
Scuttled from you regularly.
But once, that ancient serpent
Subtle of gait with fleshly fervency
Lurking within a domicile
Broke open your enclosure.
Now cherries have been stolen,
The whole field bruised incessantly.
Experience springs eternal,
Thorns entwined upon each plant.
O field I pray. Good harvest,
when your cherries blossoming ripen
and at no earlier occasion,
while farm mourns its bruised crop.
But with profounder hue,
This is one morose certainty.
For light is easy darkened, but inside
Midnight blackness remains so.
