Zaytouna

An olive tree on my wall,

nightly it sails

to the sun, returns

with daylight,

fresh, served warm

on a breakfast tray.

An olive tree,

ancient,

rooted in Galilee,

its branches reach

for Tora, arching above

me, offering

shade where dreams

curl. Its oil

gleams, a light

no night can pinch.

An olive tree: wisdom,

unlanguaged. Its fruits

—soldiers in green armor—

halt the invaders’

march, defy arrogance,

caress those awaiting

the return

of their vanished.

An olive tree, like my grandmother,

pulls children and tales

into her

roots at dusk. She threads

her years, her lap

a harbor

for the exiled. Her breath,

a breeze, softens

our toil,

bursts the gray

of funerals.

An olive tree, seeded

by your hands, its thirst

sated by longing, and longing

knows no cure but

reunion. We’ll return

to Zaytouna, to shade

our suture.

Translator’s note: Ahmed Douma documented his prison experiences in essays and poems. When his Palestinian friend planted an olive tree for him in her garden in the Galilee, he hung its picture on his prison wall in Tora. This poem is about that tree.