(Cont.d)A tree of peace is what you called me once
and then you stole the oil out of the lamp
from Christ’s own church, and then you dried,
─ using a rag completely drenched in vengeance
and unforgiving hatred ─ the sinless forehead
of baptized children at the mother’s breast.
War passes overhead with shrieks of wolves.
Above the lava rocks, amidst the broom
withered by sun, I, ancient olive tree,
am weary of the singing in the desert;
my silver leaves become all brittle
in sighs that die in the soft light of afternoon.
Tame doves peal bells asleep for my own agony.
A tree of peace is what you called me once.
(Translated by Gaetano Cipolla)