Kemonia river bridge Cassarà…
I read, much of the night, and go south
in the winter. T S Eliot
Kemonia, river, bridge, Cassarà,
together, in the Park, Orleans,
together, on a wooden bridge,
leading to a Grecian theatre
with columns, hemicycle, stairs…
Opposite, underground, station,
of a ghost, Panormus, town…
Neither visible is Kemonia
subterranean stream of Oreto,
whose bed is waste and bare,
with pools of water, here and there,
filled by a lunatic March,
which never belied itself,
ut Sicula flumina, in aestu
in hieme, si pluviae defìciunt…
Come here, come here, ricuttàra,
this is Picuraru Tuesday
Zabbinata, for all cheese-loving,
homemade, bread, at will,
a voice, from a farm, clamàvit...
Maybe, a scream, a praetérito tempore…
Didacus
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