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En esta sierra no hay olivos.

El sol, bien es sabido, que es el juez implacable, ¿por qué esta vez es él el que gira en torno a este insulso asteroide?
Fuerza curiosa la del sol, arrebatadora, y cómo no, encarnizado si no te adaptas a él.
Pero hoy el viento ruge más feroz mente,
y han sido el replicar de mis pasos los que han detenido tu ritmo,
tu estrepitosa figura me ha hecho temblar en más de una ocasión,
porque los puñales se clavan en el pecho, no en la espalda.

¿Por qué giras en torno a mi?
Siquiera seguimos el mismo rastro.
¿Por qué me balanceas?
Irregular y tetorcida es tu base, al igual que tus ramas.
Pero es el junco el que soporta las peores ventiscas.

Abandona tu carnicería,
no tengo tiempo para más espigas,
no queda terreno para olivos,
no de los que se reproducen como zarzas.

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