Aceitunera
Andaluces de Jaén,
proud harvesters,
tell me in the soul: who,
who raised olives?
not lifted them out of nothing,
neither money nor Mr.,
land but quiet,
work and sweat.
United pure water
and planets together,
three gave beauty
of twisted trunks.
many centuries olive,
the prisoners hands and feet,
sunrise to sunset and moon to moon,
weigh on your bones!
Andaluces de Jaén,
proud harvesters,
my soul question: how who,
who are these trees?
Jaén, get wild
on your moon rocks,
're not going to be slave
with all your olive grove.
Miguel Hernández, 1937
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