The Planter of the Olive Trees - Leen Shadid

by Leen Shadid

In his fingers, he held the ripe olives from the green olive tree that towered over his head, immersing him in shade. His mouth chewed and swallowed the dates from the date palms that stood tall outside his house, protecting him from the scorching yellow sun. Underneath his long, tattered, bloody nails, he carried dirt. Dirt all the way back from the fields where he worked, working to provide as much food as he possibly can.

His face always carried sweat, sweat that drenched his entire body as it dripped down; leaving him with a pungent smell that wrapped itself around him. In his brown eyes, they carried tears. His tears belonged to many things, but the main ones were homesickness and memories of the times that were somewhat good. His teeth contained different shades of yellow and black from the cigars he smoked every day, leaving him with the overpowering scent of burnt tobacco. His lips are always dry and cracked from the little to no water he had. However, they always managed to carry a smile, a smile stamped onto his face that would hide his crooked yellow teeth. His smile was often hidden by the tears he called sweat. His skin carried burns from the sun rays when there were no olive or date trees to protect him. His ears replayed past sounds of gunshots and bombs nearby. In the night, he slept soundly through the echo of bombs exploding in close towns, as if he couldn’t hear them. His back carried his children when he was forced out of home. His back carried every ounce of clothing and food he managed to grab before he was obliged to leave. His back held everything his arms couldn’t. His feet were full of bruises and lumps but he still managed to keep walking. The palms of his hands clenched the keys to his house where the olive trees and date palms stood tall covering the rays of the sun. His mind carried memories, memories that carried regrets, regrets that were the reason for his tears. His heart carried nothing but hope, the hope of returning back to his home.

by Bana Haloush

Original poem:

I’m just a person, Existing in both worlds wearing a turban, People looking at me and staring, Showing empathy as if they were caring, Looking back at my flashing past, “Was I really a person who should be asked?” People throwing me in between their arms, Awaiting for my chime to inform them of my alarms, “Was I really a person who should be asked?” I who was never capable to survive have grasped, Looking back at my flashing past, I finally believe that I have passed.

Generated poem:

Empathy as if they were caring, looking at me and staring, Showing my alarms, “Was I really in between their arms?”, Awaiting for both worlds to wear a turban, People who were never capable to survive as a person, who should be asked? Looking back at my flashing past, I finally believe that should be asked? Looking back, People throwing my flashing past, having grasped, I chimed to inform them of a person who’s just a delusion, Existing.