The olives are full term pregnant of golden oil and rosy dreams. We are frightened. Some armed people may attack us from behind the mountain. They came from a foreign place that we do not know, speaking a foreign language that we dot understand. We are anxious and alert. The soldiers may shoot any time, as we do not know when they feel threatened.
We are also tired and exhausted, as our tiny village has been closed for the second week, with no water or flour. We are heart-broken, the blood of our children and men is still glistening on the roads. We are tired and anxious and scared and heart broken, but the olives are golden green, tempting like a beautiful woman. Our olives are also tired and scared, its time for us to meet.
It is dawn, and the sunset from behind the Palestinian hills is so magnificent, so majestic and glorious. It fills my eyes with tears, as its romantic rays wash my soul with kisses. I walk with my people to our olive fields, simple clothes, simple tools, and simple joys. Our voices and broken laughter mix with the music of the trees, flowers, breezes, birds and butterflies. I want to take a deeper breath, I want to press my foot deeper in the soil, I want to look deeper at the transforming shades around me. I'm born a child again. A child running to his olive field, climbing this tree and jumping off that hill. A child in a dream of olives, lilies, green fields and hearts full of love.
A Palestinian dream.
How beautiful looking at our olive trees, as old as history, as strong as truth. How sweet touching their branches, smiling and giving. How joyful feeling the olives stroking your hand, smooth and dear. How wonderful joining this celebration of smiles and songs, hands and branches, kids and elderly, men and women, green, brown, golden, blue and every other color.
No more in a siege we are, we are free, diving deep into our memories, roots, and simple joys, flying high into our skies, dreams and aspirations. We run from one tree to another, climbing, jumping, singing, teasing, and watching our sacs getting bigger. Whenever we fill a sac we make a party and scream wildly. And whenever we look at the olive trees we laugh, now deep and real. And whenever they look at us, they laugh, deep and real and warm.
No more tired we are, no more hungry or thirsty. No more besieged. We forgot about the tanks in the roads, and about the soldiers with scary guns. We are safe among our trees. No more scared we are. Our land loves us, our trees do, and we no more care about the foreigners behind the mountain. .No more lonely were are, our grandmother and grandfather watch us with ultimate satisfaction. Happy watching their trees , sons and daughters come together. No more heart broken, our passing children and men are looking at us, no blood on their wounds, no agony, like the pure spring lilies they arise from every where to join us. The passing smiles of five thousand years fly around us, all in love and peace.
The pile of olives is getting bigger and bigger, I like to smell it, pull my trousers up and walk in it. It tingles, my brothers join me and we dance. Tomorrow we will go squeeze our olives in the nearby village. Mother is preparing the jars to be filled, and father is filling the sacs, both trying to hide their joy. We will find a way to go around the tanks and checkpoints on the road. If they stop us, then we will carry our olives sac by sac, or even olive by olive. We don't care if they shoot at us, but will care not to drop one olive. We will not forget to take with us hot bread, as blessed he who eats bread soaked with the first drops oft he golden oil. It will taste a little bitter, but we will store it in the old jars, and soon it will turn golden bright.
No more tired or scared we are, but longing for peace and thirsty for love. Oh God, you are the one who gave us faith when we needed it so much, and the you are the one who held us up, never let us fall., give us your love and peace, and give us the courage to spread them, please.
We are also tired and exhausted, as our tiny village has been closed for the second week, with no water or flour. We are heart-broken, the blood of our children and men is still glistening on the roads. We are tired and anxious and scared and heart broken, but the olives are golden green, tempting like a beautiful woman. Our olives are also tired and scared, its time for us to meet.
It is dawn, and the sunset from behind the Palestinian hills is so magnificent, so majestic and glorious. It fills my eyes with tears, as its romantic rays wash my soul with kisses. I walk with my people to our olive fields, simple clothes, simple tools, and simple joys. Our voices and broken laughter mix with the music of the trees, flowers, breezes, birds and butterflies. I want to take a deeper breath, I want to press my foot deeper in the soil, I want to look deeper at the transforming shades around me. I'm born a child again. A child running to his olive field, climbing this tree and jumping off that hill. A child in a dream of olives, lilies, green fields and hearts full of love.
A Palestinian dream.
How beautiful looking at our olive trees, as old as history, as strong as truth. How sweet touching their branches, smiling and giving. How joyful feeling the olives stroking your hand, smooth and dear. How wonderful joining this celebration of smiles and songs, hands and branches, kids and elderly, men and women, green, brown, golden, blue and every other color.
No more in a siege we are, we are free, diving deep into our memories, roots, and simple joys, flying high into our skies, dreams and aspirations. We run from one tree to another, climbing, jumping, singing, teasing, and watching our sacs getting bigger. Whenever we fill a sac we make a party and scream wildly. And whenever we look at the olive trees we laugh, now deep and real. And whenever they look at us, they laugh, deep and real and warm.
No more tired we are, no more hungry or thirsty. No more besieged. We forgot about the tanks in the roads, and about the soldiers with scary guns. We are safe among our trees. No more scared we are. Our land loves us, our trees do, and we no more care about the foreigners behind the mountain. .No more lonely were are, our grandmother and grandfather watch us with ultimate satisfaction. Happy watching their trees , sons and daughters come together. No more heart broken, our passing children and men are looking at us, no blood on their wounds, no agony, like the pure spring lilies they arise from every where to join us. The passing smiles of five thousand years fly around us, all in love and peace.
The pile of olives is getting bigger and bigger, I like to smell it, pull my trousers up and walk in it. It tingles, my brothers join me and we dance. Tomorrow we will go squeeze our olives in the nearby village. Mother is preparing the jars to be filled, and father is filling the sacs, both trying to hide their joy. We will find a way to go around the tanks and checkpoints on the road. If they stop us, then we will carry our olives sac by sac, or even olive by olive. We don't care if they shoot at us, but will care not to drop one olive. We will not forget to take with us hot bread, as blessed he who eats bread soaked with the first drops oft he golden oil. It will taste a little bitter, but we will store it in the old jars, and soon it will turn golden bright.
No more tired or scared we are, but longing for peace and thirsty for love. Oh God, you are the one who gave us faith when we needed it so much, and the you are the one who held us up, never let us fall., give us your love and peace, and give us the courage to spread them, please.
