The Olive Tree

Bury me, there under the olive tree

where my ancestors sighed as they worked

where they whipped up dustbowls and thorns

where the songs and prayers were once sung

with tired voices and broken bodies

on whose branches some hung to harvest

and others to choke the very life out of themselves.

I want to rest under the ancient olives filled with endless spirits

and where the ghosts wait to possess innocent souls 

each tree growing around in knotted branches, tying themselves

into the ground, holding onto the magical fruit

which revives the weary and contains the flavour of life.

There where the work is done like a religious rite,

with honest hands stained in dark oil spots

together with families who warmed themselves

with the hot coal filled conca 

moved from tree to tree

during the once dark winter.

Where everything felt inevitable, everyone knew

their place, where the work was true and when done

you could rest.