FORBIDDEN FRUITS

Like phantoms... Some ashes never grow cold.

There is no peace in the land of poisons,

For its venom haunts every branch even to the deepest roots.

There is sweet music in the kisses of lies,

Only that its gentle caress is a soft pierce of a poisonous arrow.

The voices from the grave still scream  awake innocent blood from guilty hands,

That plucked juicy apples from murderous trees,

And did eat.

How sweet it is to grow wings to fly,

Yet even more dreadful is the fall when it breaks.

And so does shame make rain descend from the tough eyelids of death.

Like phantoms... Some ashes never grow cold.

Shan't a seed spring forth when watered?

So does evil seed shoot and kill when it ripens.

Ask beast-keepers.

The fruits of a lie is the colour of blood,

But of false witness - the colour of darkness.

He blows out the faint light of hope

And resigns himself to the valley of the shadow of death.

There are fruits of confusion,

Ask oranges and it will tell of tangerines.

For now, by their fruits we know them not,

And they come like phantoms to trouble joy.

They watch and prey,

Secretly planting the seeds of enmity from unbridled tongues,

Till its fruits of war are fully blown.

Like phantoms... Some ashes never grow cold.

They rekindle... And burn...

And rise from forbidden smokes,

To battle with praying hands.

#El_Magnifico™