Olive tree

When the last of the sunlight goes,
the shadow stretches from the shade of the weeds
and the winds find no sails to guide,
who remain hovering over the
Attican fields.
Three moons have passed,
aligning the sun to the shores,
returning the previously slumber some clouds
to chariots ferrying honey,
and at that precise moment
A sapling grew from its womb
having been silenced previously by the
withered fields of pasture.

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