Moonlit Olive Grove

under the luna’s watchful gaze the olive trees stand like sentinels of old their gnarled branches twisted in a slow lament for the secrets they keep and the stories they’ve told

the wind stirs the leaves and the trees seem to sway like dark-skinned women mourning a lost love their branches creaking with a primal sorrow that echoes through the night like a mournful dove

in this silence I search for the Duende’s spark the fire that ignites the soul and sets it free but it remains elusive a whispered promise that only reveals itself in the darkest hour’s hush