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The apples rotted on the ground,
their season done. No one is starving here
but there is sorrow. After all, we are mortal.

This is not the time of year
to be walking in the orchard.  Shhh,
the trees are sleeping.

We climb our mountains quietly.
Two thousand years of tears is not enough
to round all the rough corners.

Our flesh is torn
from going on.  The climb is steep
and Time has bony fingers

It is not the sweet red apple
that we sorrow for, nor the shivering limb;
we mourn for blossoming.