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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