Image via Wikipedia

Bereft of my prized fruit trees,
I starve, with loss of the fruitful harvest,
228 treasures of arbor in my razed grove,
I possesed with loving hands,
What God gave to me for my affectionate labor,
Now obliterated by the hurricane.

Five orange trees, one of which delighted me
With fruit juice ever so sweet,
The sensation danced in the mouth,
The flavor as perky as a samba,
Uprooted, by this callous force,
Shoved without any affection.

But 61 carambola trees will be missed,
The tangy and sensuous taste of the fruits,
I weep for them, the majority of the grove,
As I picked up a battered fruit,
I cried even harder,
Bemoaning the death of God’s arbor.

Our Lady of Aparecida, take to heart,
My petition to console my grief,
My grove, annihilated by this hurricane, to be replanted,
I stand in the wreckage, mourning,
What used to be my harvest,
What used to be labor done with caring hands.

Pray for me, Our Lady,
For my pains to be eased,
For my hunger that would persist to be quelled,
Pray that my life would recover again
So that I’ll be made worthy,
Of Our Savior and Our Son!