Some friendly soul, quite near old age,
when time to think is plenty, sits,
still spry enough, beneath an olive tree,
to take a while of pleasure in the land.
A flick of water runs along the valley,
where a frog troats,
sea glimmers through the leaves,
where a bird rehearses.
The Man says, Mr Olive Tree, you
are a Parable of Peace. May I
take a branch for my children ?
And the Tree says, Mr Man, you
are an idiot, like all Men : give them
a bough aflower, and they will make a stick.
About this poem
This poem, representing Monaco, is part of The Written World – our collaboration with BBC radio to broadcast a poem from every single nation competing in London 2012.