Strange Fruit (Poetry)

I thought to grow a wondrous fruit —
a golden apple for my love
my aim to press my amorous suit
in hope she’d coo like a sweet dove.

I planted a young sapling, strong
and tended it with all due care
yet while it grew the season long
not one small apple did it bear.

I asked advice of a wise crone
who bade me sing to it by night
and so at dusk I went alone
to lullaby by candlelight.

I sang the words the old crone wrote
for seven nights beside the tree
’til tired and cold and sore of throat
I felt the dawn break over me.

From out the leaves a round shape hung
and shimmered in the early light
in answer to my verse sung
it promised passion at first bite.

I plucked it tenderly at first
and to my lips I pressed its skin.
At once, my resolution burst —
I couldn’t wait — my teeth sank in ...

I can’t describe what then befell.
They found me weeping — drunk, half-blind
more hours passed than sense could tell.
The fruit had poisoned heart and mind.

I bide my time in this small room.
A servant brings my basic needs.
I squint out through the winter’s gloom
and in my pocket, three gold seeds.