Ashes of my olive grove
When I was just four,
Baba would walk me through the olive groves,
his land stretching endlessly,
acres of trees—each one a memory,
each one rooted deep in the soil of home.
He’d set up a ladder for me,
let me climb,
picking the dark, ripe olives
from the branches heavy with history.
“Go inside,” he’d say,
“bring a bucket of water.”
I ran, feet light on the earth,
filled the bucket from the well,
its coolness a moment of peace.
But then—
a scream, sharp and raw,
cut through the air.
I rushed outside,
and saw the flames—
huge, fierce,
devouring the olive trees,
the ones Baba had cared for,
the ones my ancestors had planted.
In the distance,
soldiers stood,
their smiles cold,
ruining everything we had known,
burning the heart of our land.
I dropped the bucket.
The water poured uselessly on the ground,
while the fire took what we had left—
our home, our history,
our future,
turned to ash.
Post Comments
Poetrysoup is an environment of encouragement and growth so only provide specific positive comments that indicate what you appreciate about the poem. Negative comments will result your account being banned.
Please
Login
to post a comment