“The vampire and the lemon tree”

Beneath the silver quilt of night,  
A vampire wakes from dreams of flight.  
No castle walls, no cryptic tomb—  
Just orange dusk and lemon bloom.

He slips among the twisted roots  
With velvet shoes and quiet boots.  
His cloak, the very shade of fear,  
Billows gently—home is near.

But, oh! This home is strange and bright:  
A little grove, moon-washed with light,  
Where lemons dangle, yellow-bold  
In clusters ripe as drops of gold.

No blood to drink, no easy prey,  
He lingers where the branches sway.  
Their fragrance, sharp and sour and clear,  
A taste his tongue’s forgotten here.

He plucks a lemon, peels the skin,  
If lips could bleed, it stings within.  
Yet bitter juice, so bright and wild,  
Reminds him he was once a child.

He hangs his cloak upon a knot,  
Lets memories spill, heavy, hot—  
Not hunger now, the ache he bears,  
But longing for the sun-soaked airs.

And so at dawn, he leaves the tree  
(The pulp still clings beneath his teeth),  
A shadow paler than the rest—  
A creature strange, a little blessed.

For every night, beneath the moon,  
He sips the sour, haunting tune:  
A vampire’s thirst, a lemon’s grace—  
A bitter peace, a sweet embrace.

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