When my leaves sprouted under the sun, I heard the mellow sound of a lullaby.
When my branches heightened, I danced to the cadence of the river and sea.
When the small fruits first revealed themselves, I felt a tender touch.
The truth of the seed! I’m a testament.
The moment of first feeling the soil—who fostered me until I reached the earth,
The Mother I resisted until the end,
I treasure you deep within my roots.
Grow with me! I’m a testament.
The hand of the one who planted me,
Where is your family?
I want to see your eyes again.
To feel the callous hand for the second time.
Once more, let my trunk, branches, leaves, and fruits know how it is to be loved.
As I’ve given your land a part of me as an offering,
The one who heard and felt, even the one who danced.
Until the end! I’m a testament.
Even if I was showered with rose thunderbolts and its thorns struck to uproot me,
It will not wipe me out.
Let me hear and see the colors erupt.
It doesn’t scare me, who saw it all first.
As I live through my children’s despair, I’ve remembered their cries.
Piercing to whimper, my leaves listened to it all.
I saw their gazes in the rubble of their once-comfort.
I felt the pen writing the child’s name.
Gratitude was given if they found and recognized a body—living or slain.
Come, my child! I’m a testament.
Tell the story of your homeland.
Use me to give it a life.
Write me a legend,
My oil became your tears.
Sing your siblings a cradle song.
While showing to the world the composed anguish you recorded for so long,
And watched the people march and call to arms for you on their own roads.
An epiphany! I’m the testament.
Continue to plant a seed of me, but please, not a part of you,
And your lover, family, friends, and neighbors.
Uncertainty is present, but one thing is assured.
We will be the face of resistance.
We did not bury the hearts of the fallen but planted a promise to fight and be freed.
I’ll continue to stand on this land.
And my child, spread through the world and tell them who you are and where you came from.
I am you—the one who withstands the rain of fire.
And this land is yours, as I am here.
I’m the testament!
My roots connect with my people’s veins.
And this land, the settlers claimed as their own,
Will never fall into their hands.
I only know my people’s blood.
So, let them know your forefathers planted me.
Tell them I’m an olive tree…
Article: Jessica Mae Galicto
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