Anathema

She died. And I decided to bury her with my own hands in our own garden where I could always visit her.
So I planted her in the corner of the garden.
After a week I saw some sprout on her grave.
After a month some leaves,
But after a year there were fruits up there!
Whatever effort I made to pick them I couldn’t.
It was as if they were a part of the tree and stuck to it.
They were gray.
A hundred years passed.
The day I died there were lots of her around me.
Each of them was weeping many a tear and their whole intermingled sound caused me to feel a hole in my head.
I died though,
And I never saw her, saw them
Again…