Near the murmuring in the grain fields,
of the waves ff wind in the oat-stalks
The olive tree with its silver-covered mass
Severe in its lines in its twisted
Heart in the earth:
The graceful olives polished
By the hands which made the dove
And the oceanic snail:
Green, innumerable, immaculate nipples of nature
And there In The dry olive groves
Where alone
The blue sky with cicadas
And the hard earth exist
There the prodigy
The perfect capsules
Of the olives filling
With their constellations, the foliage
Then later, the bowls,
The miracle, the olive oil.
(P. Neruda – Ode to Olive)
