“Tell me, old olive tree,
As I sit taking my breath on this rock,
Stories from yesteryear
Which I can see written on your trunk.
I have come to lie back
On your naked roots, sad through yearning,
So that you give me back
something, since I have lost hope.
Your delicate foliage,
Which under the blue sky the sea breeze blows,
Is the image of peace,
Envy of all of the joys of the city.
Your green and white branches
Cover you like angel’s hair;
And one broken branch
Is missing a splinter, taken by the wind.
When young and supple,
You grew on the edge of the hill,
Your branches were grazed
By the sickle of a son of Mohammed.
The Arab and his household,
Smelling your flowers in May would head out,
And your olives on the ground
Would be collected by his sons in the evening…”