Saint Martin, Early Morning…
Saint Martin, early morning,
Forty-Four...
I ate fava beans,
with some wine,
nni la zza Mararàzzia,
a lady, next door,
of our loved court,
Cortile Genco,
which, hot, in my heart,
forever, will remain...
I was five old,
Aquarium is my birth,
and, in the eleven’s night,
my sister, Rose, was born...
A dish of dried favas,
boiled with wild garlic,
pieces of cardoon,
extra virgin oil...,
peasants of court, ante,
reaching country sides,
by mules, mares, donkeys…
I ate, in the early morning,
at Maria Gratia’s home...
My baby sister Rose,
newborn in the night,
was coming back home
from visiting the Nonna,
in zza Marina’s arms,
under her black shawl…
White flakes of snow
were settling on black shawl,
cocooning baby girl...
The court, a white lawn…
I swear to tell the truth,
by God, Good Saint Martin
Didacus
