My friends are growing on a tree
wearing green shirts and pink shirts,
dark blue trousers and light blue trousers:
some of them are hanging like apples, or like pears,
some like oranges, all others like grapes.
I shake the tree and my friends  fall down
and, by God, they kill themselves
but – I must be stupid – for the moment it seems to be
the only way to communicate with them.