The road back to Eden
is strewn with broken daisies.
Dandelions have lost their heads
and the nightingale is silent.
There were no stones to mark
our way home, nor bread to eat,
only the promise of work
and seed. No choice but to plant.
With narrowed vision, you cleared the land
and cooked the sacrificial lamb.
We speak now of wheat and corn.
Paradise is safely out of reach.
They say there is peace in forgetting,
Yet sometimes this heart still turns
Eastward. The apple's sweet savor
lingers like a song on a summer night.
