He hates the children embracing
in the dappled shadow of his lime trees.
They make pilgrims of themselves each evening,
bringing blooms and sweet kisses
to press against the skin of their fellow saints.
Their whispers rustle in his laden leaves,
and shameless cries warm his bark
on night breezes drifting through his window.
He hates that his dust mingles with their sweat,
that they ramble home filmed in his land.
He hates the mornings
when the mists rise in his grove
smelling of passion and youth,
the sick-sweet tang
of crushed and fallen fruit.