She arrived running.
Her dress was as black as those winter nights without moon.
I think she was young but her face was nearly completely covered with a dark veil.
It was long ago and I am afraid my memory can’t recall all of it but I clearly remember the shouts of those men. They got her under my leaves and knocked her down throwing grave stones. She felt, she cried and her life was gone.
They said her guilt was love.
(The Olive Tree Tales)
It was one of these hot summer days when, in the still air of the afternoon, a bicycle stopped near me.
The man that was riding it left the bicycle at a side and walked under my leaves to rest in the shadow. He took his straw hat off, bended his light linen jacket at a side and sat with his back on my trunk. He remained like this for few minutes observing the nature around then, he took out of the jacket’s pocket a little black book and a pen.
The cicadas were singing loud and their song told me this man was a poet writing about us on his moleskine.
(The Olive Tree Tales)
It was a beautiful sweet summer night, the moon was high in the sky and so bright that you could think she polished herself for some special occasion.
That very night I was being cradled by the music of my friend the nightingale when something started to tickle me. I thought I was alone; everything seemed quiet but this something that was tickling me.
The nightingale interrupted his song and, in the suddenly silent air, the only thing I could hear were sights of pain. The tickling was not ceased but it slowly became less acute and when it stopped also the sights were gone.
When the nightingale started a new sad song I looked down at my limbs and, in the moonlight, I saw the shape of a hanged man.
(The Olive Tree Tales)
She was whispering in his ears how afraid she was.
I remember he was holding her tight in the evening sun.
He slowly caressed her unripe breasts.
She seemed to shake but she forced herself to smile and then she drunk honey from his lips.
I don’t remember which year it was but if you somewhen pass by, you might be able to read it on me.
He left his mark on us both: on me their names, in her his seed.
