Soul Orchard

In the grove of souls they glitter
Firm or ripe, sweet or bitter

Passing Gods stir up the breeze
Drifting past the laden trees

Each fruit sings a different strain
Dewy with ambrosial rain

Ofttimes one will sense its peers
By the harmonies it hears

First they're bathed in warming light
Then are chilled in starless night

Fastened each by slender tether
Buffeted in violent weather

Singing into the unknown
Yearning not to be alone

Some are taken in their prime
Plucked by Gods, a fate sublime

Others shrivel and descend
Into depths that have no end

In the grove of souls they gleam
Growing sweeter as they dream

Penned by my hand on the 6th of Mayan, in the year 507 AF.