I dedicate this verse to thee,
most noble fruit the glowing orange,
that mocks the poet's dignity
like wax dissolving on a door-hinge.

Its juice sustains the sick and poor,
its color brighter than a lozenge,
its peel, a cure for every sore
prescribed by doctors with a syringe.

The shepherd leaves his flock to forage
through groves of it at morning light,
then stores the excess into storage
to last him through the winter night.

All peoples, proud of tongue and lineage,
all kingdoms dreaming on their golden age
but none escape its ancient heritage:
all roads lead back to thee, O orange.

For all my craft, my toil, my plunge
through every rhyme that language hoards
the truest rhyme was on my tongue: orange
squeezing orange, sweet juice running forth.

Penned by my hand on the 24th of Mayan, in the year 1000 AF.