And The Cicada Sings
E La Cicala Canta
Cut a branch, the wound may heal, the pain will not go away; if leaving the
native land. The chain cannot be seen deep and strong; the roots of
the old stump. Young years, growing, nursing mind and body of the
place: sun ups, dawns, early steps, songs, words, the tempest, cold north
blowing wind, the humid Scirocco, the fragrant wild olive along Via Reggio,
the sea smell, the sea weed, the burning sand magenta and fine, pungent the
market odors, don't leave.
Mullet into the net, wet sac, the carriage, the horse, track of manure, give
forth sweet scent, sweetly in the town square, mixed to the roasting
chestnuts at the corner. Morning meal with shepherds, of leaven and
ricotta still hot, into a big wooden bowl, a shed dark from smoke and dirt
floor, forms of cheese, hanging from rafters of tree branches. Still
the piper and is blowing magic, into the bag pipe, in my dreams.
Easily can a branch be torn from the trunk, no one can see the pains; cut
it, it will wither and die.