Sweet juices, crushed from the fruit run over her lips,
Down her breasts, down her body, down between her hips.
Strong legs wrap around a tree, squeezes with her thighs.
Breathes life through roots with quiet sighs.
A child she bears beneath its shade with labour hard and long.
A moment's tenderness, a moment's passion, short and sweet the song.
She cradles, then buries it beneath the earth, under a drowning moon.
Nourishment, blood and bone, for the roots to find.
The cruel mother lives in the grove, dancing her life away,
Sweet as the juice on a soldier's lips on a summer's day.