A fruit that kills,

A woman that deceives.

A man, banished—

Exiled to the mud,

from whence he came,

and shall return.

He toils and tumbles,

screeches and cries.

The trees watch,

with growing silence.

The roots cave in.

They are ignorant—

to my suffering.

A witness that

never confesses.

They bear fruit

that fall and are bludgeoned.

They cry in silence—

there is no one left

to devour their pent-up tears.

—I grow tired,

I grow weary.