We make our way midst flowers, vine leaves, fruit.
But their speech is not only of the seasons.
A many-coloured revelation, they step forth from darkness
And have perhaps the flash of jealousy

Of the dead on them, of they who give vigour to the earth.
And what do we know of the role the dead play?
For so long it has been their nature deeply
To tincture the loam with their dispensed marrow.

But the question arises: do they do this willingly?
Does the fruit, made globular, force its way upwards
To us, its lords—the labor of dejected slaves?

Are they the true lords who slumber amongst the roots
And from out of their abundance do not begrudge us
This hybrid product of their dumb strength and of their kisses?