Wasteland

Wasteland
Like a woman without children,
solitary stands an old vine.
Ghostly like a night shadow.
Cursed like a bad crop,
seeking a vein of barren soil.
Maybe this is the last morning dew it cries for.
No virtue of a virgin,
to tighten its branches with her hair.
No sun to shine over it.
There are no birds to steal the grapes.
Nobody will drink its sweat.
Somebody will take it on blistered bare palms.
Far away.
Who knows where?
Wasteland left solitary, ghostly,
cursed in a stony grave.
Stony monsters will tear out an old vine.