He waited three years

for that well rooted tall tree

to produce soft and juicy figs.

Three years of patience

resisting the criticism and laughter

of experts, cynics and friends.

Three years of care

fertilising and digging the soil

with sweat and infinite affection.

Three years respecting

the wise rythms of nature

and the counsel of the ancestors.

Three years offering,

his time, his heart, his work

to the tree planted in his allotment.

Three years dedicated

to the fig tree of his dreams

so that its appearance was not a sham.

Three trembling years

suffering in silence its hard fate

of only being a perch for birds of evil portent.

Three wasted years!

He cut it down, thinking he was following your footsteps

but in doing so, suddently, he saw its green heart

and heard its sad sighs.

One year more, only one year,

and it would have given forth the desired fruit

that in silence was maturing.

Since then, Lord,

although the gardener remains with you,

his heart is wounded.

Cure him and teach him, with affection,

to wait as you waited

by loving and overcoming his resistance.