El Olivo

On the hill where the sun rises every spring morning, defying gusts and the east wind, you will find an olive tree. Many years ago, the only concern of a man was to make it grow. He says there were a hundred trees, the pride of the one who made them born. 'Sir, it has no owner, and no laborer approaches to prune its branches.' Alone, it lives from wind to wind, happy to be free and wild. It no longer fears if in autumn a frost strips it bare, and always has enough with the rain to clean its leaves. It's always there... near the road offering its shade. It gives everything to everyone, what more can be asked of an old trunk!
When a fruit is born, it's so small that not even the birds dare to peck at it. Thinking, perhaps, that it's the last one, the last fruit and must be cherished. Every summer, they build their nest on any branch. And the old tree feels life being born in a branch with them. And so it grows from wind to wind, waiting for any evening when someone will come, cut it down, and burn it to pieces. On the hill where the sun rises every spring morning, defying gusts and the east wind, an olive tree is dying.