And The Cicada Sings
E La Cicala Canta
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.