Of a tomato plant,
one rhyme-avoiding bard believes
you don't eat the roots, the stems or the trash.
Let alone of no appeal to what comes lower,
none of these the taste-buds suit.
No. What you eat of it is its apple.
Prefixed with love-
it grows a red, soft heart
from one that is green and ungiving
according to that one bard.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem