Mulberry

Mulberry


Apples and Pomegranates, Figs and Olives;
Sycamore, Poplar, Cypress, Cedar,
What i s the difference?
I don't know; I was saved,
For the first time, from myself,
When I was seventeen,
And I am now far and away
Not a botanical expert.

But this much I know, remember:
A long time ago,
Right before I left the West of Wishiwash River for good,
In the State of Who'sthere and Who'snot,
At the crossing of a sinful alleyway, 
With a blistering Noontide of Judgment,
I found, without much effort, a mulberry tree,
Which shed its own blood everyday,
Underneath the sinners' step.
And so far as I observed,
Not once one of them stopped on his way,
Never to look up at the trunk, twigs, limbs or branches,
Nor below, at the bloodied pavement,
Let alone ever taste the tempting vintage.
And if one early morning,
One of them saw me with my bowl in my hand,
Plucking and devouring, (and gathering for my friend),
He would stare at me as though I had gone mad,
Or was from a savage land,
Wondering if I knew,
Whether or not I would be poisoned.
O what a blissful ignorance!

Here too, now,  somewhere, in an obscure corner,
On one of the fingers of this island,
There is another mulberry tree,
But she is far from me, quite inaccessible, not on my way,
And besides,
I suspect others than me have already discovered,
How a mulberry actually tastes.