And The Cicada Sings - Louis G. Ferrin

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

The Village

Far away old native land of mine.  Anguish for your fate I suffer, never out of my thoughts you are your dear fine places remember leaving i did, folly.  Surrounded by sea and blue blotched of silver, magenta the land, wild, thick your forest rich of fauna far away alive I hurt, ho my land.  Crossed by waters of la Sila to the sea rivers run source of life.  Village upon the hill to the West.  Fenced pastures of far away days.  Vibrate the threshing machine, flies the chaff, straw of gold, mounds of clover, the harvest awaits the horse-bean.  Wide and fast the river, the island of weeds in the middle, where the coot and the eel lived.  No more fences of flowers, pastures are gone, rivers of concrete and hard the breath.

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  And The Cicada Sings
  The Fifteen Thousand of Gettysburg

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