Josep Pedrals - THREE SONNETS, 9

Into his eye death has contrived to creep.
Since then, with lid macabre, ill-fated,
his glance ressembles olives left to steep:
black and dead and sad, debilitated.
It doesn’t even cry! No whim to weep.
Glassy, about to be check-mated,
it doesn’t let a single tear-drop seep,
the olive-press is dry, soul dehydrated.
But we’re all waiting for the day we reap
the flow of olive-juice that’s generated
by woe now grounded on a reef and deep.
We’ll even lick his face—well-lubricated!
Till then, old olive-press, given up to grippe,
with olive-stones your eyes will fill, instead of sleep!

Translated by Anna Crowe