I could go around barefoot in my garden
with a silver hook from my antique room
and pluck out gently a few fruits
from the ever-blooming tree of love
where rests in a nest a cooing dove.
I could wrap the fruits of love in papers
of gay colours – orange, red, and pink,
knot them up with sparkling ribbons,
and then call the old mailman and say:
Will you not give it to her, please, I pray.
But then, after weeks of tiresome wait,
planting flowers, watching them grow,
feeding birds in the sun, passing the time;
The words of love neatly packed come back
You never read them – what do they lack?
Perhaps you are busy mixing in the company
of handsome men in leather jackets, who
at the very snap of your fingers will willingly
run blindly in the fields planted with mines –
will walk barefoot to the distant shrines.
But I will keep on plucking fruits of love
from the tree with my silver hook –
the branches – well laden – kiss the ground;
I will keep on sending them to your address,
while you dance with handsome men
in your bright orange evening dress.