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.
