The Orange Groves in salty air

stand proudly squat, toward the Sea

the cultured roots that hold them there

unseen beneath each nurtured tree.

 

The blossomed fruit pristine with dew

raised up through rock, held firm by soil,

is testament to life anew

and those who gave with blood and toil.

 

Though the sky will fall and burn

and some may cling to cleft and shade,

it’s true that men will never learn

they cannot kill what love has made.