muerto

I was angry with my friend. I told my wrath, my wrath did end. I was angry with my foe. I told it not, my wrath did grow.

And I watered it in fears. Night and morning, with my tears. And I sent it with smiles and with soft deceitful whiles. And it grew, both day and night. Till it bold an apple bright.

And my foe beheld it’s shine. And he knew that it was mine. And in two, my garden stole. Whether night had failed the pole.

In the morning, glad I see. My foe outstretched, beneath the tree.