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Olives of Castilla, the humble, the quiet;
 immutable notaries the passage of time;
discreet, resigned, never demand anything
either hot naps or cold breaking dawns.
Olives of my land, forest of La Mancha,
temperate for a hundred years, hardened by a thousand winds;
in the vast plain that is lost and widens,
dotting the landscape of green ashy.


In your old trunks, no nightingales nest,
or lovers drawn hearts.
The spring will not paints of colors,
in your sparse foliage no hidden passions .... 

                                                    Jesus Herrera Peña. 


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