Fruits of Pomona: Sweet is their Syrup Born on the branches and born on the leaves, the bloom and

its flowers, a canopy, from beneath its harbors and in its sheathes, a song without singers, a harmony in its shade, does not hear the sound of war that is brought into silence a moment yet awaiting a new fateful hour while on the reeds of heavy branch, a scent indeed it was the scent of new offshoots, of redolent innocence brought to bear amidst the violences of muteness awaits no further doom and, flourishes aghast at nothing nor ruptured of pulp, fruits of Pomona: sweet is their syrup.