I traced my life through fields of chipped stone
Glanced up at the white-tipped volcano
The sun blazed from a hollowed out dome
The blinding light furrowed my brow
Like a harrow and pricked my skin
Tending fields of lemon and pistachio
The scented dark was a balm from my sin
The pitiless heat and the cracked soil
If I could, I would go back there again
Back to a life scooped out from toil
I would find refuge in scent and shadow
I would tend olives and press oil
I would tread the fields of fire and snow
If I could, I would go back there now
Terza rima
My grandfather was from Bronte in the east of Sicily. He was a hairdresser but I guess that other ancestors toiled on the fertile slopes of Mount Etna, which broods over the island like a great black giant
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