I climbed towards the top of the cherry tree. It was my favourite one.
Everybody on the horizon.
The train passing on the railways with its mechanical sound announcing the Saturnian time.
The cherry tree is full this summer.
Half bucket already collected.
Wind blowing, strong green leaves, black sour sirup on the hands, on the neck, dripping down the chest towards the belly. A purple line on the beaten skin, sticky, moist.
Melting into the cherry’s smell. Coming home.
She was in the other tree, the one with big red fleshy cherries, the sweet ones, that you cannot stop eating; for when you start you become like child until the taste fades.
Can you hear me?
Yes. I am here! I could see her joy, and her legs fixating the branches while the bucket was half full. She had small scratches on her white skin.
How can I be in the world?
Deep deep down I’m afraid arrows will be thrown at me.
Wind was listening. Sky was listening. The garden was listening. The silence between the trees was breathing. She was eating cherries while the Sun was playing with her shades.
If you are wood the arrows will hit you though if you become like water the arrows will pass through.
The purple line got absorbed into my skin. As we wanted to fill in the buckets until Moon’s time, for the night was to be full in love and cherries.