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Davide Riccio

of

Turin %28torino%29, Italy

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The olive-trees

by

Davide Riccio


I walk round my olive-grove

The body of the olive-trees writhe in torments
With outstretched arms unto everywhere
With branches able to bend any angle

They change
They think of all once again
They wrinkle
They spred out and return
Sometimes they screw themselves

The olive-trees fight
With different numberless ways
Of being and growing
Of going or coming back

Not a symbol of peace
To me it seems of restlessness

At times
The leaves get old
They turn silver
To the light

And the little oval drupes
Of their fruits
Already seem the only one peace
Of an Extreme Unction