The night between the day They pruned the orchard And the day They’ll come back For the branches So that the trees are like amputees From whose sight The sawn limbs haven’t been taken Their arm is somewhere In the pile The fist they made In agony Slowly opening
Pruning
Pruning
Pruning
The night between the day They pruned the orchard And the day They’ll come back For the branches So that the trees are like amputees From whose sight The sawn limbs haven’t been taken Their arm is somewhere In the pile The fist they made In agony Slowly opening