The vengeful wind of autumn roared

threateningly

at the olive tree:

“I’ve come again

for you old witch

I’ll unravel your dark green dress,

stitch by stitch

I’ll break your limbs

I’ll crush your bones

until the skies hear your moans

I’ll spill you blood

until the dry dirt in these fields

turns into mud.”

“I know,”

 replied the thick rough trunk,

“you told me so

twelve months ago.”