Olives 1/2
- Ira Satpathy
- Jul 13, 2024
- 1 min read
The olive trees remember
the pluck-strung-twang-thrum
on their branches by little kids.
A childish play; they would
plop olives at another’s head.
For olives bounce off.
Whereas bombs don’t.
Bombs bang-crack-boom-shatter,
disseminate-butcher-kill-slaughter
little kids. Heads burst and fly
with splotches of blood all around.
A drought-struck land now
flowing with blood rivers.
The olives remember
the chew-nosh-munch-chomp
in the mouths of little kids.
Olives crave to be crushed
Between tiny sets of teeth.
Tiny sets of teeth, now fossilised
near the roots of the olive trees.
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