Alone on the plains of immortal grace,
Stands a lemon tree,
Planted from a single seed,
Watered by tears,
Pruned by a biting breeze.
Guarded by the lion
Who sings of wintry days,
Where skies turned pale
And nights sing.
Of an old soul,
Roaming starfields and comet roads,
Even as cold suns and river runs
Fell into black holes—
Still, the old soul roamed.
Tears of grief,
Like silver leaves,
Drifted on the cosmic breeze.
And where the lion sat beneath the lemon tree,
He listened to its haunting song—
Of love
Lost and gone.
Grief is a sacred song,
A raging roar
For his dearest one and family,
Buried below
This lemon tree,
Ancient and old,
Sowing bitter roots.
Where the lion roams,
He roars,
And the lemons grow.
There he’ll die,
Returning to the fruits of home,
Wrapped in leaves.
Until his song has ceased,
Lives the Lemon and the Lion.