Way down south
beneath the line
where stories muddle up
with time
there are some trees

leaves of green
and flowers white
decorate the
southern night
from these trees

branches marked
but not by time
burned out by
jute and knotted twine
from these trees

close your eyes
and think when
these trees
were weapons of the men
these trees

nothing grows
out from the root
of these trees
no strange fruit
on these trees

once the fruit
that hung up here
filled many folks
with mortal fear
of these trees

not apples, pears
grow here today
and no strange fruit
of Billie Holliday...
grow on these trees