The residue of olive leaves the dull intricate skins
The light tart bark the life held within
Thin slice olives make pimentos wait
The nectar awaits the mouth the mouth taste the weight
In Florence branches are broken of spoken peaceful things
But among the stallion warriors the fat fills war in blood and stain
So olive tree stands alone waiting in wounded breeze
A world full of branch debris without a single foreign need
Some hold branches in hand others prefer mansions of land
Time will find no Eden again just broken branches in broken hands
So olives groves of olive trees hang alone among the Florence hills
The residue of man it seems will root only in his dreams
The reality we feared man is best equipped to kill
