And The Cicada Sings - Louis G. Ferrin

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And The Cicada Sings (English, Italian)
E La Cicala Canta

The Branch

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.

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  And The Cicada Sings
  The Fifteen Thousand of Gettysburg

Copyright © 2009, Louis G. Ferrin.  All Rights Reserved.