Each island has its own fruits.
That was the secret of the archipelago.
For many years, it was all one needed to know.
Each island has its own cascading flow
Of waters tumbling down the shining rock
That feed the valley and its rising flock.
Each island has its own time, like a clock
Impelled by seconds that burst with their own world
Whose hidden chambers are embraced, unfurled.
Each island’s fruits are wrinkled, pearled,
These are sweet and those are piquant, tart,
They mortify the mind, they swing apart.
They blend in some ancestral art,
Illuminate the sailors’ plain pursuits
And send a chattering among the monkey brutes.
Yaacov David Shulman