Malkuth

All the fruits have descended upon you
Aged, riped, full of gold

Surrounded by the deterioration of the fall
I have no doubt my little chrysalis
In your winter cocoon
That in your permutations and transmutations
You are blossoming into that
Which is desirable, most desirous

When at last spring comes
You will astonish and intoxicate even myself
And cure the boredom of God