It is the stand

                   of apple trees behind the barbed wire.

                   First one, then two, then the whole grove, the sun

                              flattens them.  Gravid, they droop,

                              ripen, and men lean ladders,

                     and their treasures are gathered, packed,

                              into baskets, then ferried out

                              from the earth‑walled rooms.

                                     Some are rendered down,

                              some peeled of their skins, grated

                   with almonds, and mixed to haroseth that makes sweet

                   the bitter herbs. Some have their teeth plucked out

                   for the fillings.  Some go to the press.

                  From their pulped flesh oozes the purest gold,

                   sweeter, oh Lord their God, than the fruit of the vine

                   to be filtered through cheesecloth and sold.

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