Salt & Sun

Arts & Culture

Oct 20

Lemon light on stone,
sea-salt on the breeze—
“Amunì,” we go,
following the keys of markets waking slow.

Ballarò is calling—vendors sing the day,
silver fish like comets on a bed of gray.
Arancine golden, steam like Sunday grace,
Nonna folds the pastry with a prayerful face.
Etna draws a skyline, breathing low and wide,
black rock and red poppies on the lava’s side.

Hey, my bedda island, keep the table long—
pass the bread, the stories, pour the dark Nerò.

Salt and sun, we carry home,
hearts like sails in a southern wind.
Taste of life on every tongue—
sing it once, and sing again.

Tamburello heartbeat under balcony shade,
pupi tilt their helmets in a shadow-play.
Caponata ruby, olives night and green,
brioche col tuppo swims in almond dreams.
Trapani’s salt mirrors steal the afternoon,
Noto’s baroque blush honeying the moon.

Hey, my bedda island, keep the table wide—
share the sweet granita, let the worries slide.

Salt and sun, we carry home,
hearts like sails in a southern wind.
Taste of life on every tongue—
sing it once, and sing again.

Mama hums a hymn to saints and citrus trees,
Nonno counts the vintages by winter seas.
Every door a chorus, every street a rhyme,
wedding rings of surf around the edge of time.

“Who are we?”
“Sons of Sicily!”
“Daughters, too—Figli di Sicilia!”
“We are bread and oil, we are storm and calm,
we are stone and song, we are open palm.”

March of mandolins, steady as the quay,
steps of many journeys finding one bay.
“Ciuri, ciuri” blossoms through the alley’s bend,
old wounds mended where the tables end.

Raise your voice like Etna’s glow,
keep the family close and kind.
Sons and Daughters of Sicily—hearts in tow,
leave no neighbor left behind.

Salt and sun, we carry home,
hearts like sails in a southern wind.
Pasta Norma, saints and drums—
sing it once, and sing again.

Cannoli moons, figs of fire—
kiss the cheek, the night is choir.
Sons and daughters, sea and sky—
Sicilia, we rise, we rise.