Were I the palm tree which your love returning
Chose for its roost of fronds and bitter spices,
Gladly would I embrace you with those burning
Branches from which renewed the phoenix rises,
Though from my ashes on the desolate plain
No palm should spring again.
But were I not that palm, and were the peasant
To fell and faggot me for winter fuel,
Still in the seasoned timber would be present
Such passion, such desire for that renewal,
That in my glowing embers he might see
The burning bird and tree.
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