These fine peasants that left their Sicily!
\nTheir wandering roads,
\nvines, overturned columns of Phoenicia,
\nthe blood of tribes
\nthat pushed their ships from the sand
\nand danced under gulls,
\nsinging the poetry of blue hills
\nlapis lazuli sea,
\nand came to the hard fortress
\nof the New World.<\/p>\n
Traded the warmth of their blood heritage
\nfor the gray towers of New York,
\nthe forbidding armies
\nof tired, frightened faces
\nlooking for a dream,
\nsomewhere in the dirt and gravel
\nof this ominous world.
\nOh Rosa, with warm breasts,
\nthe smell of gardens!
\nAntonio, with your hands
\nsoiled with the truth of Sicily\u2019s soil,
\nher fleet of ships
\ncoming to harbor with holds of fish,
\nwine, grown on the sides of sun covered hills.<\/p>\n
The laughter of children,
\nfaces moist, warm as doves
\nheld to the cheek.
\nChildren with a thousand years of faith,
\nthe brocade of women taking them to church,
\nwith families exchanging greetings,
\ntouching hands,
\nsmiling with the faith of an old land.
\nEternally in love,
\na people holding each other,
\nwiping away grudges with tears,
\ncome to the chill of New England.
\nTheir clothes ragged, covering confusion.<\/p>\n
Where is the sun?
\nWhere is the embrace of friends,
\nthe ancient lineage of our lives,
\nthe deep well of love and courage
\nthat fought invaders,
\nthe eruption of volcanoes,
\nearthquakes.
\nFlowers on every sill,
\nthe blessing of priests,
\nthe sharing of wine and water?<\/p>\n
Little Italy,
\nwith its bright flags
\nover the wasted ruins of a slum.
\nThe joining of hands,
\nthe marshaling of hope on door steps,
\ncalling from windows,
\nhow is your son?
\nIs your daughter betrothed?
\nHas your husband returned from the west?
\nAnd frightened,
\nlove that passed between souls in the night.<\/p>\n
It will get better.
\nAnd the resolve, above pots of geranium,
\nto go west,
\nto the inland states of Ohio, Pennsylvania.
\nCan we plant our vines?
\nWill the olives grow?
\nDo the factories pay?
\nCan our little ones succeed?
\nHang on. Hang on.
\nStay in contact, write, call,
\na neighborhood here and there,
\nuntil we\u2019re on our feet,
\nand we come home to Sicily in our hearts.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
These fine peasants that left their Sicily! Their wandering roads, vines, overturned columns of Phoenicia, the blood of tribes that pushed their ships from the…<\/p>\n