My Fig Tree Don't Let Me Go.

"Where is your soul, now, my fig tree?

Where your eyes?

Are your roots still there, rotten, proud and grey,

The hair of fate upside down in dismay?

Where could this soul be flying? 

Could she be in your seeds?

Inside your offspring?"

The little fig tree plants growing

Among the wild bushes behind houses,

A treat for a look,

A tree and a hook you can never escape. And it won't let go.

"Which yards are you now shading with your palm-like leaves?

Which children are you feeding with your sumptuous fruit? 

Your holy empire,

The priests, your followers.

If I dig now where you have retired

And find the thirty pills I never took down,

 What says you if I do so,

All the full quantity take with a single swallow and a pint of fine ouzo?"

-Once I heard an ancient Greek call out "OU ZO!" -

I watched as he fell wisely from a tall fig tree,

And I saw him die right there with splashed ripe figs under his body,

And green figs smirking with red slashes still falling on his smashed chest.

"Tell me Eternal Lady,

If I swallow them pills, still dive from up there and dance with your falling flesh,

Will it be over, will I be free?"