O, Vine

O, vine that bears good fruit,
Stretched upward toward the sun,
Emerging from the ground,
And branching into two

Different vines that branch
Again into two vines,
Again into two vines,
Again into two vines.

At the eastern end
Of this branching path
Lies a yellow flower
That waits for yellow bee

To eat its honeyed juice
And step onto its womb
With its pollened feet
To bring forth a new seed.

But at the westward side
Of this branching path
Lies another flower
That waits for purple wasp

To eat its honeyed juice
And step onto its womb
With its pollened feet
To bring forth a new seed.

Which vine bears good fruit,
O, vine?
Which vine is not the vine,
O, vine?

White sheep is sheared of wool,
White milk squeezed from black goat,
Each offers what must offer,
To the jealous farmer,

Who divides his flock
At the end of day,
White sheep to the east,
Black goat to the west,

Grey Ram stands on mountain,
Looking down.