In Kozani for the yearly harvest,
Expelling bewitched Crocus from his bed,
I, along with thousands of migrant guests,
Plucking clean, his head, of his crimson threads.
Gather ye, gather ye, the golden spice!
Th’ enricher of baths, th’ aroma of queens,
The starter of wars for its hefty price;
Whose expense hath rocketed since e’er gleaned!
‘Midst my labors, I made a startling find,
A bloated corm which refused to take root,
This piddling nugget, to pocket consigned,
His treasure to know by gardened pursuit.
Peace, saffron! I mean only to extend,
A welcoming home ‘mongst some motley friends!
G. E. Hernandez