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Outside the city where the pomegranates grow,
Sat a heartbroken maiden full of sorrow.
So sorrowful was she that the veil she wore
Was full-wet and soggy as never before.
I knew not the lass, nor from where she had come,
But the sound of her sobs set my heart  athrum

So into the grove where the pomegranates grow,
I hurried astumble with  sweat on my brow.
I reached the fair lady - she looked up alarmed,
I gently assured her she wouldn't be harmed.
More soothings I uttered to make her at ease,
And gently inquired what so disturbed her peace.

She looked deep in my eyes - I thought I would die,
The words on lips gibbered and wouldn't come by .
Mighty deep were the limpid pools of her eyes,
Drew my soul under, my words were but sighs.
Her eyes said it all, nothing more need be said-
T'was clear she was mourning for her love who was dead.

All that I gathered in a moment of time,
Don't ask me how for there's no reason or rhyme.
I felt my blood drain and knees to jelly turn,
The real and unreal I could not discern.
My reasoning all gone my vision was blurred,
A sigh that was deep  and her burden transferred.

Outside the city where  grow the pomegranates, 
Lie row on row of headstones caskets and crates.
For here lie the wicked, the good and the rest,
Some died in their sleep, but many not so blest.
Some souls here do wander in search of their loves,
And prey on innocents in pomegranate groves.

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