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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: October 12, 2016

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Submitted: October 12, 2016



Lasciate ogne speranza
voi ch'intrate?

No hope
in this darkness?

She lay there
her soft fruits
all bare
and fresh
for the plucking.

I kissed
her pouting lips
and sensed
the moisture there.

Her tongue
like a viper
embraced mine
which was fine.

All is here:
she said,
and I said:
harvest time
is upon us
let us bring in
the harvest
before the sun
goes down.

I ploughed
her field
of ripeness,

plucked and ate
of her soft fruits
and she of mine.

I lay
and mused on her
as she lay
watching the sun
move across
the bright sky.

Shall we
be abandoned?

Is the light
gone for good?

Frutto della vita,

where once we lay
and plucked
and sucked,

her fruit dried
and her meadow fallow ,

and the trees bare
and stark branches
wave at us.

She has only
wrinkled fruit now,

her field
full of weeds,

where no birds
come or sing,

and far off
we wait
for the end bell
to ring.

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