Ode to Oil
Near the rustling grain, the waves of the wind in the oats,
of silvery volume, severe in its lineage, in its twisted earthly heart; the olives polished by the fingers that made the dove and the sea snail: green, innumerable, purest nipples of nature, and therein the dry olive groves where only blue sky with cicadas, and hard earth exist, there the prodigy, the perfect capsule of the olive filling the foliage with its constellations: later the pots, the miracle, the oil.
I love the homelands of olive oil, the olive groves of Chacabuco , in Chile, in the mornings the platinum forest plumes against the wrinkled mountain ranges in Anacapri, above, above the tyrannical light, the despair of the olive trees, on the map of Europe, Spain, like a marine gust.
Olive Oil, hidden and supreme condition of the pot, pedestal of partridges, celestial key of mayonnaise, soft and tasty on lettuces and supernatural in the hell of the archbishop’s silversides. Olive Oil, in our voice, in our chorus, with intimate powerful softness you sing; you are Castilian language: there are syllables of oil, there are useful and fragrant words like your fragrant matter. Not only wine sings, oil also sings, it lives in us with its ripe light and among the goods of the earth I set aside, oil, your inexhaustible peace, your green essence, your full treasure that descends from the springs of the olive tree.Did you like it? Don’t forget to comment and share! ;) Thanks for reading us!