I asked a thief to steal me a peach,
but he led me instead to a barren land.
I begged him again—he made no speech,
just pointed ahead with a trembling hand.

He led me instead to a withered tree.
where fractured souls grieve as twilight slows.
he whispered, his eyes too hollow to see.
“Love’s roots wither where bitterness grows,

And poisoned trees bloom where love’s roots decay.”
yet one lone fruit in the darkness swayed,
while broken hearts mourned at the edge of day,
where bitterness thrived and love had decayed…

His distant eyes, dim and knowing, knew
with branches gnarled, the fruit was dry.
“This is all that remains where love once grew,”
he whispered low with a hollow eye.

His distant gaze was shadowed and worn,
his voice like wind through weathered stone.
“Love’s roots wither where hate is born,
and bitter hearts will die alone.”

The poisoned trees stood cold and stark,
with twisted limbs bereft of grace.
And yet one fruit within the dark
still hung, swaying in that lifeless place.

“Take it,” he said, though the air smelled of death,
a warning laced through every word.
I reached—then stopped—drew back my breath,
as whispers in the branches stirred.

The fruit looked bitter, its flesh turned black,
and sorrow hung like mist in the breeze.
Still, I had asked that thief to act,
to steal a prize from these peach trees.

I reached again, then paused, as whispers grew,
sad voices tangled within the breeze.
I drew back, somehow I knew,
it tasted of grief, of love’s disease.

For I knew wisdom lives in emptiness,
in prophets’ words and holy things.
And stolen gifts bring no redress—
they only rot, like broken things.

I asked a thief to steal me a peach,
but all I found was loss and pain.
For love, once twisted, lies out of reach,
and only fools seek fruit in vain.

Yes, poison grew where love decays,
Yes, I had asked to steal a peach,
Knowing broken hearts shorten our days.
instead I found truths the prophets teach.

So I turned away, my hands left clean,
and left that thief where sorrows dwell.
For stolen love will never grow green.
and thieves know nothing but farewell.

and stolen gifts are not the cure.
I left the thief and his barren land.
For thieves know love is never sure.
And was never meant for a thieving hand.

I left broken hearts to fall at sorrow’s feet.
for prophets had warned of such deceit.