Cherries
In a park near your adolescence,
eat ripe cherries
under every fragrance
and dream of happiness, as I once did.
With love scorching my throat,
I set burning words on his trail.
In my complaints, and my praises, too,
a sinister timbre crept.
The moon rose white with fear;
my words crackled in the clouds.
I was afraid for everyone I saw.
How could I shield them from my passion?
On a breeze, smelling of new-turned soil,
a seductive whisper reached me:
Come here, toy of everything you meet,
play with darkness, with roots and stones.
That song I sang, I sing.
That whisper I heard, I hear.
Those cherries, those sweet cherries,
I can't find anywhere.
— Mort Duffy
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