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03/12/2021
Augusto
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Augusto
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Garden without fig
There is a fig tree in the poet's garden. In spring it does not yet bear fruit, and every morning in spring the poet goes out, steps up to the tree and grinds a green leaf between his fingers. And then the wrinkles of thought and worry on his forehead smooth out a little.
His muse, a little later, smells of flowers, as a muse should. They grow in the meadow in the green grass beside the basil. She kisses him on his forehead, still a little pale in the spring, and it smooths out completely now.
A happy whiff of citrus hangs in the air.
A lovely companion as you walk through the Jardin du Poète.
p.s.: What, no fig at all? Not even a leaf?! - Fragrance pyramids...!
His muse, a little later, smells of flowers, as a muse should. They grow in the meadow in the green grass beside the basil. She kisses him on his forehead, still a little pale in the spring, and it smooths out completely now.
A happy whiff of citrus hangs in the air.
A lovely companion as you walk through the Jardin du Poète.
p.s.: What, no fig at all? Not even a leaf?! - Fragrance pyramids...!
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Kurai
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