I am not the fruit which hangs low, But a branch far below that. A mild branch from which no fruits grow. The high-hung fruits flaunt a fair glow, And the low-hung fruits are ersatz. I’m not even a fruit hung low. When the summertime sun still shone, Rats perched on me to nab a snack, Because from me, no peaches grow. The fruits above me grow so slow; I couldn’t bear if they grew fast. I am not the fruit which hangs low. A peach above, weighed down by snow, Loses its grip and tumbles past Me, the branch from which no fruits grow. This privilege, I can’t bemoan; Without fruit, nothing holds me back. I am not the fruit which hangs low, But a branch from which no fruits grow.