"The Orange"
There are rare souls whose minds take flight,
Unbound by reason, bold in light.
They close their eyes—not to escape—
But delve where deeper visions shape.
With every breath, a world anew
Emerges soft in silent hue.
At first, they see a branch arise,
Steadfast, reaching to the skies—
Its leaves a lush, abundant green,
A calm within its bearing seen.
No common bough of tree it seems,
But thought made root in lucid dreams.
And as that inner sight expands,
Behold—an orange gently stands.
It hangs alone, both full and deep,
Its glow in silence seems to sleep.
Its skin, so fine - pored and bright,
Holds drops of dew in morning light—
Two beads, that glimmer, shyly fall,
Along the curve, so slow, so small.
They drift as dancers, poised and bare,
Embrace at last in tender air,
Then vanish—not with meaning grand—
But softly touch the shadowed land.
No cry, no sign, no tale to tell—
Just starlight where the silence fell,
Beneath the tree’s embracing shade,
Where light and depth in stillness fade.
Should then a soul, in inward dream,
Reach forth toward that citrus gleam—
Not with the hand, but from within,
To feel its weight, its textured skin—
They'd find, upon return to sight,
A summer scent in morning light
Still lingering upon the hand,
As if they touched a distant land.
To be a child—not to believe
All fables told on Christmas Eve—
But still to see with open gaze
The world again in wonder’s haze.
For only those whose hearts still flower,
Preserve against cold reason’s power
A tiny garden, safe, unseen—
Where all that is, and might have been,
Still softly breathes in shades of green.
- a poem originated from an excerpt out of the short story „Die Orange“ by J. B. Weber adapted in verse and translated into English by the author, 2025