Oh, purple, oh seedy inside core,
Oh savory raw nearly green pith,
Oh heat and salt and oil, how you
Lather our Aubergine, how you
Shower our royal Phoenician in
Shellfish and the fruits of the sea
And its shores, oh canopies of smoke
And floors of heated steel, oh echoes
Of night, moonshade and its partner
In perfect ripeness, oh gases, artificial
Extractions, oh nature and your myth,
Oh meals and feasts and dinners and
Shattered fasts, oh broken hunger,
Oh empty thirst, may your seasons
Be in season and your weather be
Inclined toward your gravity, over
And under ground and bush and
Berry and tree, your coniferous
Friends are ever green and our
Purple mountains cannot compare
To your monarchic majesty.
Roman Ryan 