A ripe peach is on a wooden table.
Rather than reach for it, I write poetry
on its virtue, beauty and succulence;
safer, more enduring than the true peach
in this unreliable realm –
I find it’s never there when I reach for it.
I’m back again in my bare cell, empty-handed.
This poetry is not much like a peach –
not within a country mile;
a very rough approximation
yet it’s imbued with the scent of a peach
with which I must content myself.
A ripe peach on a wooden table
and I have thrown my life away
in pursuit of it and its presumed reward;
swallowed every tale; followed the wildest rumors;
written down my confessions for all to see.
I have trusted You, my Lord,
in complete ignorance for the truth
of the long-trumpeted, promised perfect peach.
O child of God, keep your faith confidential
and pray for Meher not to let you down.