There is no sunlight here,
Only mirrors hung low from the dirt ceiling,
Twisting fractals of firelight from the depths
Into warm rays which try and mimic
The light of spring.
But reflections and reproductions
Cannot a garden grow.
The thorns that waste the rich earth
And tangle about my ankles,
Are the only fruits of my labor.
A reminder of my invisible shackles.

His tree mocks me--His success at growth.
Life in a land of death, how enticing.
But I have learned my lesson, no curse is worth a bit of fruit.
This curse of seed and loss has taken everything from me,
Even my gardens.
No. There are no curses here--only punishment.
No sunlight--only mirrors.