DAY DREAM
My dream is as old as the mountain olive trees.
Purple and black, blue olives fall through the cool
air and land on the crisp grass.
My wish is as old as the mountain people
making green lush oil from the olives on the ground.
The oil they pour on stones.
The oil anoints their brides.
The oil will feed their children.
At the gate, a blind beggar turns
his hot song of exile
into a hungry prayer for peace.