THE MULBERRY TREE

Kay Hassan

-From the Old HOUSE.

(De quel Age es-tu)*
 Oh, Grandfather’s mulberry,
Your giant trunk’ s hollowing  ,
Yet shooting sprigs ,and sprouting
To shade the ancient hand-mills,
And the fence of the holy stone
 On which your lord’s body
Was bathed for the last time
 De quel Age es-tu,

I know how many years
You listened to our howl,
 and to
 Mother’s Lullaby for
Her Sick new born in Hammocks

You endured  our unkindness
Our piercing squeaks-when
Plucked your unripe fruits
And did many bad things;
Un-rhymed, and dis-harmonized
the sparrows’ chirps.

Then we hung saw like, swing of ropes .
 Around  your neck.
And  for so many years
Wound around your wrist
Rough halters for
Calves’ tanned skins
. (our butter maker.)
And slaughtered  under your shade
For Abraham’s son
A thousand heads of  life-stock
And ripped their fleshes
With the heaviest choppers,
And most often barbecued
Their kidneys and testicles,
With ceremonial moods,
 Screaming.
 ‘De quel Age es-tu.’
But,
Despite all our crimes
You said. ‘Whatsoever.’
Again and again,
Until The thunder
Hit thy trunk
And split it
Into equal halves,
Sprawled on the ground
Thighs open to the sky
Having the  Ditch of  Earth
Between thy loins,
 Henceforth;we understood,
 How the motherland’s  vagina exposed
 To swords and lances.
And daggers of tongues,
Where my brother shed tears,
On your corpse,
 ‘De quel Age es-tu.’

You know it is your time
The leaves are wilting, and
They won’t match your Cambium
You know it is your time, and-
 the worst of times are coming,
 Dear father.

“Though we were not good species in the ecosystem, DEAR, we had loved thou as much as Man can love God.”
* Arthur Rimbaud.

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