In the shade of an ancient olive, standing tall, Where the whispers of history in silence call, In a land where roots run as deep as time, There, a memory unfolds in rhythm and rhyme.

Beneath its boughs, in Palestine's embrace, Grandma's hands wove love in that tranquil place. With sandwiches crafted with tenderness and care, And cold tea, watermelon - summer's fare.

Underneath that tree, a haven was found, Where laughter and tales would often resound. Despite the missiles, the turmoil outside, Under its branches, our fears would subside.

Grandma spoke of the land, stories untold, Of the olive tree's worth, more precious than gold. A symbol of peace, resilience, and life, Enduring through turmoil, through strife.

This tree, she said, with its roots so deep, Holds the dreams and sorrows that our hearts keep. A testament to the Palestinian plight, A beacon of hope, in the darkest night.

Its olives, like pearls, in the sun's warm kiss, A reminder of nature's simple bliss. In its shade, we found a world apart, A lesson in resilience, an art.

So under the olive tree, we'd dream and rest, In the heart of Palestine, we felt blessed. For in its branches, we found our story, A tale of survival, of hope, and glory.

In that olive tree, at my grandparents' abode, Lies the spirit of a people, a sacred code. A symbol of home, of an enduring fight, A testament to love, to life, and light.

Under the olive tree, we found our way, In its shade, our spirits forever stay.