Il Portastendardo di Civitella del Tronto (n. 57 - Marzo 2026)

Photo of the Week: Egyptian Granite Atlantes at the Entrance of the Round Hall, Vatican Museum

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

Candlelight Way of the Cross in Brooklyn, New York

A Thin Lent and a Restless Heart

Justice and Divine Vengeance Pursuing Crime (1808) by Pierre-Paul Prud'hon

As Holy Week approaches, I find my Lent lacking. The practices I keep—Mass, daily prayer (hesychasm, the Holy Rosary), and fasting—are already part of my routine. Even my other devotions come easily. There has been little real sacrifice.

For almsgiving, I do what I can, though my resources are limited. The other night, for example, I bought food for a homeless man begging for something to eat beside a hot dog stand. He refused it and asked for money instead. Unsure whether to discard it—wasting food—or eat it myself—which would break my abstinence—I returned it to the vendor at a loss.

Apart from this, life remains relatively comfortable. On Sundays, I visit museums after Mass, then share meals with friends and family. In the evenings, I read, write, and tend to small hobbies—such as philately and stargazing—and watch the occasional film. None of it is wrong, but I question whether I should be setting more of it aside.

What troubles me most is not what I do, but what I lack. I do not see in myself a true conversion of heart. I grow angry at the corruption around me and the dishonesty of those in power. I want justice, but I worry that this desire for retribution borders on vengeance. That, more than anything, shows how far I still have to go in trusting God’s justice.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, March 28th, Feast of Saint John of Capistrano

Holy Week at Holy Trinity Church in Hackensack, New Jersey

Remembering Princess Cristina Pia of the Two Sicilies

24 December 1869 – 28 March 1870

In memory of Princess Maria Cristina Pia Anna Isabella Natalia Elisa di Borbone delle Due Sicilie, daughter of SG King Francesco II and Queen Maria Sophia of the Two Sicilies, we pray for the happy repose of her soul.

Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord and let perpetual light shine upon her. May her soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

Good Friday Traditional Latin Mass Shuttle

Remembering Charles III, Duke of Parma

14 January 1823 – 27 March 1854

In memory of Carlo III di Borbone, Duke of Parma and Piacenza, we pray for the happy repose of his soul. While out for a stroll on Sunday 26 March 1854, the Duke was mortally wounded by an assassin’s blade and died at 5:30 PM the following evening on 27 March.

Eternal rest grant unto him, O Lord and let perpetual light shine upon him. May his soul, and the souls of all the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace. Amen.

Celebrating the Solemnity of the Annunciation at Transfiguration Church

Et ait Angelus ei: Ne timeas Maria, invenisti enim gratiam apud Deum. Ecce concipies in utero, et paries filium, et vocabis nomen eius IESUM. (Lk 1:30–31) *

On Wednesday evening, the Solemnity of the Annunciation was beautifully observed at Transfiguration Church in Chinatown, New York. The turnout was remarkable—the church was nearly full.

I was glad to see that the church had retained the Passiontide custom of veiling statues in purple, a striking reminder of mourning, penance, and of Christ hiding Himself from His persecutors. The Sung Latin Mass featured Byrd’s Mass for Four Voices, performed beautifully by the choir, whose effort elevated the Liturgy.

Before Mass, there was an unexpected moment. On my way out, a friendly Border Collie wandered up to me and began playing at my feet. His owner, a tall blond woman, soon followed and introduced him—Benjamin, a therapy dog. Learning that, I joked that it must have been what drew him to me.

In passing conversation, I mentioned that I was on my way to church. She asked if I was Catholic, and then why Catholics “worship” Mary. I explained that we do not worship the Virgin; we honor her as the Mother of God, and worship God alone.

She replied that most Christians do not venerate her—a claim that is not quite accurate, given that most Christians are Catholic. Already running late and not inclined to debate, I answered simply: “Well, that’s their problem,” patted Benjamin one last time, and made my way to church.

After Mass, we broke the Lenten fast with a simple serving of pommes frites. A modest end to a solemn day—marked by grace, music, and the quiet persistence of faith.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, March 26th, Feast of Beata Maddalena Caterina Morano

Notes
* The Angel said to her: Fear not, Mary, for thou hast found grace with God: behold thou shalt conceive in thy womb, and shalt bring forth a son, and thou shalt call His Name Jesus. (Lk 1:30–31)

Traditional Holy Week at Our Lady of Sorrows Church in Jersey City, New Jersey

Feast of Beata Maddalena Caterina Morano

Beata Maddalena Caterina
Morano, ora pro nobis

March 26th is the Feast of Blessed Maddalena Caterina Morano (1847–1908), a Piedmontese religious sister of the Salesian Sisters of Don Bosco, devoted to the education and spiritual formation of young people. Born in Chieri, Piedmont, she became a teacher at a young age and later joined the Daughters of Mary Help of Christians, inspired by the mission of Saint John Bosco.

Sent to Catania as a missionary, she founded schools, oratories, and houses for poor and abandoned girls, becoming a beloved mother and educator. Known for her charity, humility, and tireless dedication to youth, she played a key role in expanding the Salesian mission in Sicily.

She was beatified in 1994 by Pope John Paul II. Her life remains a model of joyful service and unwavering faith.

Evviva Beata Maddalena Caterina Morano!

In celebration of her feast, we offer this prayer:

Prayer to Blessed Maddalena Caterina Morano

Father, you planted in the heart of the virgin, Blessed Madeleine Morano, your word of truth, which prompted her to dedicate herself with constancy and wisdom to the education of the young: grant that through her intercession and following her example, we may be docile to the action of the Spirit in fulfilling with joy your loving design. We make our prayer through your Son Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God for ever and ever.

Ponderable Quote from Textos de Doctrina Política by Juan Vásquez de Mella (IV)

Juan Vásquez de Mella y Fanjul
(8 June 1861—26 February 1928)

Because you hold a very strange concept of the Nation and of the Fatherland, which you confine within the narrow limits of the present. The nation is like the human organism, which is governed by the law of constant renewal whereby all the molecules that compose our body disappear, yet the spiritual soul remains, revealed through the continuity of memory and the unity of consciousness. And thus, in the generations that succeed one another upon the national soil, there is also a soul, a vital activity, and, in a certain sense, an informing principle—not subsisting as does that of individuals, but resulting from the beliefs, sentiments, aspirations, interests, memories, and hopes that form that treasury which tradition transmits from one generation to another, as though it were an ark in which the living essence of the Fatherland were enclosed. 

It forms the solidarity among generations, which resemble the waves of an immense river that one day reflects serene and starry skies and another day dark tempests; that one day mirrors the greatness of Covadonga and another the misfortune of Guadalete; one day the shadow of Alarcos and another the splendor of Las Navas, the glory of Lepanto, or the sublime misfortune of Trafalgar; yet which always flows along the channel of History, traced through the march of the centuries by the tradition of a people. When the will of the nation—the nation which is not the fortuitous aggregate of people gathered within the shifting limits of a territory, but the moral organism of a series of generations united by an internal spiritual bond—arises, not as the fleeting and passing work of a day, not as an ephemeral will, but as a constant and enduring will revealed in the perennial traditions of History, then those institutions which depart from that tradition and that national spirit, which do not wish to derive their title from it, or which attempt to divert that current from its natural channels, are swept away and cast into the abyss from which they cannot rise again, for they sink forever, and the principle of tradition passes triumphantly over their ruins, to continue History.

Translation my own. Speech delivered in the Congress, May 6, 1898; published in Juan Vásquez de Mella, Textos de Doctrina Política, Preliminary Study, Selections and Notes by Rafael Gambra (Madrid, 1953), p.28.

Palm Sunday at the Oratory of St. Josaphat in Bayside, New York

Simple Pleasures: Pulcinella-Themed Gifts at the Italian American Emporium in Little Italy, New York

Traditional Neapolitan Pulcinella dressed in cotton with
hand-painted terracotta hands, feet, and heads

Found a couple of Pulcinella-themed gifts imported from Naples at the Italian American Emporium in Little Italy, New York. A classic character from the commedia dell'arte, dating back to 17th-century Naples, Pulcinella is often shown with a hooked nose and a black mask, symbolizing the Neapolitan spirit and representing the voice of the people and the complexity of the human soul.

Hand-painted terracotta Pulcinella mask

From the Museum to the Drawing Board

Young Ladies of the Village, 1851-52, oil on canvas, Gustave Courbet

Lately, I have been thinking about taking life drawing and painting classes again. My recent experience with writing courses has made that decision easier. Friends have been encouraging me for some time, and I finally decided to give it a shot.

If I am honest, there is also a sense of guilt. I was given some natural ability, and my parents believed I would develop it further. Instead, I let many years pass without seriously pursuing it.

Summer, 1911, bronze, Aristide Maillol

Another reason comes from my frequent visits to galleries and museums. Standing before paintings and sculptures awakens something that never quite went away. It reminds me that art once played a much larger role in my life.

Now I am well past my prime. My hand is less steady, and my eyesight is not what it was. Still, it is never too late to try again.

I have no expectations of success, and no interest in popularity or money. The goal is simpler than that. I just want to create something—and in doing so, make myself a little happier.

As I prepare for my first class, I went back to the Metropolitan Museum of Art for inspiration, revisiting the European sculpture court and a few of my favorite figure paintings, especially those by Camille Corot (1796–1875) and Gustave Courbet (1819–1877).

Corot’s figures are quiet, introspective, and poetic, shaped by soft light and muted color. Courbet’s, by contrast, are grounded, weighty, and direct, presenting ordinary people with an unidealized, almost confrontational realism.

While I am nowhere near their level, I look forward to putting pencil to paper and being surrounded by others who take creating seriously.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, March 24th, Feasts of San Gabriele Arcangelo and Sant’Aldemaro da Capua

(L) Alphonse Promayet (1822-1872), 1851, oil on canvas, Gustave Courbet. (R) Louis Gueymard as Robert le Diable, 1857, oil on canvas, Gustave Courbet

(L) Woman in a Riding Habit (L'Amazone), ca. 1855-59, oil on canvas, Gustave Courbet. (R) Madame Auguste Cuoq (Mathilde Desportes, 1827-1910), ca. 1852-57, oil on canvas, Gustave Courbet

Woman with a Parrot, 1866, oil on canvas, Gustave Courbet

(L) The Woman in the Waves, 1868, oil on canvas, Gustave
Courbet. (R) The Source, 1862, oil on canvas, Gustave Courbet

(L) Sibylle, ca. 1870, oil on canvas, Camille Corot. (R) A Woman
Reading, 1869 and 1879, oil on canvas, Camille Corot

Bacchante by the Sea, 1865, oil on wood, Camille Corot

Bacchante in a Landscape, 1865-70, oil on canvas, Camille Corot

Bather, 1782, marble, Jean Antoine Houdon

Andromeda and the Sea Monster, 1694, marble, Domenico Guidi

(L) Leda and the Swan, 1654, limestone, Michel Anguier. (R) The Nymph of Dampierre, marble, signed and dated 1763, Louis-Claude Vassé

Girl with Doves, ca. 1780, cast terracotta, Claude Michel, called Clodion

Festmesse anlässlich des Todestages

Finding The Calypso

An old black-and-white photograph of my father's fishing boat

As I mentioned in an earlier post, I recently began taking creative writing classes. One of our first exercises was deceptively simple: choose a random photograph and write whatever it inspired. No research. No overthinking. Just let the image guide you.

For the exercise, I chose an old black-and-white photograph of my father’s small fishing boat. I’ve only ever seen the picture; the boat itself was lost before I was born. My father said the boat sank during a bad storm in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. It had been moored to a pier, and if I remember correctly, he forgot to clear the clogged scuppers. The storm intensified, rainwater collected, and the boat slipped beneath the surface. He couldn’t afford to raise her.

My father was a skilled and passionate fisherman, but owning a boat was different from fishing off one. He bought it impulsively from a friend—cheap, enthusiastic, and short on experience.

The Cousteau Society logo, depicting the nymph Calypso with a dolphin

In my story, I named the boat The Calypso. I never knew its real name. But choosing that name sent me off on an unexpected tangent. “Calypso” immediately brought to mind one of my childhood heroes, Jacques-Yves Cousteau, and his famous research vessel. Cousteau’s Calypso, in turn, was named after the sea nymph in Homer’s Odyssey, who detained Odysseus on her island, Ogygia.

That single invented name pulled a thread that unraveled an entire tapestry of memory.

Illustration from Jules Verne's Twenty
Thousand Leagues Under the Sea (1870):
Captain Nemo and Professor Aronnax
view Colapesce from the Nautilus 

A precocious and imaginative child, my interests rarely stayed in neat categories. Oceanography, art, mythology, fantasy, and science fiction blended seamlessly in my mind. I devoured Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea. Captain Nemo and the Nautilus felt as real to me as any historical figure. I was equally fascinated by Scylla and Charybdis, by Galatea and Pygmalion, by nymphs and nereids, by Atlantis rising and sinking in equal measure.

Even folklore crept in—tales like Colapesce, the boy who could live beneath the sea, holding up Sicily on his shoulders. Later, films like The Life Aquatic with Steve Zissou felt less like parody and more like a knowing wink to that same childhood wonder.

Looking back, I realize those interests weren’t separate at all. They were syncretic, overlapping currents feeding the same internal ocean. The photograph of my father’s lost boat became a portal. It wasn’t just a writing prompt; it was a convergence point between experience and imagination.

And with it, the desire to make things again.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, March 23rd, Feast of San Giuseppe Oriol

Annunciation at the Oratory of St. Josaphat in Bayside, New York

Gustave Moreau at the Met

Salome with the Head of John the Baptist,
oil on wood, ca. 1876, Gustave Moreau (1826-1898)

A couple of paintings by Gustave Moreau, currently on display at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, recently brought back a vivid memory.

My copy of Between Epic and Dream

In 1999, the museum hosted a major exhibition, Gustave Moreau: Between Epic and Dream. I had first encountered Moreau’s work years earlier in high school, and that exhibition was my first and only chance to see many of his paintings in person. Captivated by the strange, jewel-like worlds of the French Symbolist painter, I felt that his canvases were less like illustrations of myth and scripture than visions—rich with color, ornament, and mystery.

I remember walking slowly through the galleries, examining the intricate details and shimmering surfaces. I had brought a date with me that afternoon. While we lingered in front of the paintings, she seemed largely uninterested. The contrast between my fascination and her indifference became clear quickly, and by the time we left the museum, I had already decided there would be no dinner.

I didn’t take photographs that day—I don’t think they were allowed—but I did buy the exhibition catalog, which I still own. Looking at Moreau’s work again now, even in a small group of paintings, instantly brought that afternoon back. Some exhibitions leave a lasting impression. That one definitely did.

~ By Giovanni di Napoli, March 22nd, Feast of Sant'Isidoro l'Agricoltore

(L) Salome with the Head of John the Baptist, oil on wood, ca. 1876. (R) Oedipus and the Sphinx, oil on canvas, 1864, Gustave Moreau (1826-1898)

Photo of the Week: Egyptian Granite Atlantes at the Round Hall Entrance, Vatican Museum

Photo by New York Scugnizzo

The Annunciation at Annunciation Parish Upper Church in Crestwood, New York

Literary Caprices: Vignettes and Other Indulgences

Bronze Sheela-na-Gig pendant

Since we marked the blog’s anniversary a bit early this year, I’m sharing something a little different.

I started taking creative writing classes to sharpen my craft and, as an exercise, wrote a series of vignettes and short stories. Several examples have appeared here over the past year.

More risqué than my usual posts, the following pieces aren’t ones I typically publish—but there’s no reason to let them gather dust. More personal in nature, they have little to do with faith or the Italian American community.

I believe I’ve mentioned before that I don’t come from a literary or journalistic background, nor am I an academic or historian. This project was born from a desire to create something more relatable and interesting—at least to me. Tired of the same old Italian American narratives being peddled by smug academics and ideologues, I set out, in my own modest way, to contribute to a cultural renewal.

While I continue that effort, what I truly want now is to write poetry, which I hold to be the highest form of expression. Unfortunately, though I may have the heart for it, the soul of a true poet remains elusive—as evidenced by the few examples I’ve shared here in the past. Still, I’ll keep forging ahead in search of my Muse.

Accused by more than a few critics of being overly pedantic, I’ve made a conscious effort lately to temper that tendency. With these posts, I’m also trying to broaden my range and explore different genres. Since taking the classes, I have especially enjoyed revisiting old family stories and memories. Thankfully, I’ve been blessed with a full and interesting life—so, God willing, there will be more to come.

I’ve enjoyed writing these pieces. I hope you enjoy reading them.

Shane MacGowan (1957-2023)

Sheela at the Gig

It was the late 90s, and the summer air over Randall’s Island smelled of beer and fried food. The Guinness Fleadh Festival was in full roar—fiddles, citterns, and bodhráns thumping as thousands gathered beneath a hazy New York sky to celebrate Irish music and culture.

When The Pogues took the stage beneath the big tent, the crowd surged forward as if pulled by gravity itself. And there was Shane MacGowan—leaning into the microphone, ragged, magnificent, impossibly alive.

Midway through the show, the crowd suddenly split open. People laughed and stumbled aside as a massive man lurched through the clearing, drenched in beer and sweat, wearing nothing but tighty whities and a grin.

“Kelly!” he bellowed again and again before disappearing back into the amused, swallowing sea of bodies.

Not long after, as if summoned by symmetry, a young woman staggered past in her bra and panties, copper hair wild, shouting, “Patrick!” Her search was no more successful. The crowd folded behind her, too, reclaiming both stories without resolution.

Between sets, near the vendors’ tents, my girlfriend was trying on rings. A silver brooch caught the light—a sheela-na-gig. [1] It was beautiful. I turned it over in my hand—its ancient, stark symbolism unmistakable.

Devotion felt more important at the time, so, unable to afford both, I bought her a claddagh ring. [2] Certain symbols—love and loyalty—meant permanence if you believed hard enough.

In hindsight, of course, the sheela-na-gig understood things better than I did.

Bioluminescent Walk of Shame

At a house party on Long Island Sound, my girlfriend and I slipped away to go skinny-dipping. The water was calm, the night clear, and the moon was bright and full. Frolicking at first, we drifted into each other’s arms beneath its light—until, mid-moment, the water around us flared to life in an eerie fluorescent green.

A swarm of jellyfish had bloomed all at once, lighting up the shallows in an aquatic glow. Panicked, we thrashed our way back to shore, making quite a scene and drawing the attention of the entire party. As we streaked across the beach toward our clothes and the house, the revelers rewarded our ignoble exit with a generous round of applause. We weren’t stung—but we were red with embarrassment.

Lady Godiva, J.J. Lefebvre (1890)

A Stolen Glance and Unwelcome Encore

Stepping outside the noisy bar to take a call from a friend, I happened to glance up and saw a beautiful young woman in the second-floor apartment opposite, fresh from the shower, calmly toweling her hair in all her naked glory. Oblivious to my presence, she stood there with an ease that was almost statuesque. I turned away out of respect and told my friend what I’d just witnessed. Laughing, he said I was a better man than he—he wouldn’t have looked away.

Tempted, I stole a second glance. To my dismay, the window now framed a naked man instead, presenting me with the full and decidedly unwelcome monty. I let out an involuntary groan and relayed the turn of events. My friend cackled and said, “That’s what you get for being a peeping Tom.” [3]

Velvet Nights: Before the Curtain Fell

There was a time—before I found my way back to the Church—when the nights belonged to chasing skirt, cocktails, and loud music. Not long ago, I had the chance to step back into that world for a bachelor party. I passed—and it made me think of those nights again.

My friends and I would sometimes start the night pregaming at cabarets or burlesque clubs where women in heels knew how to pivot on a dime and make you feel "special" for the length of a song. The air carried perfume, gin, and the faint electrical buzz of anticipation.

Yes, it was decadent. Lewd at times, but hardly the last days of Caligula, no matter how people like to dramatize it. It had rhythm. It had choreography. It had a wink—feather boas, pasties, and fans. Long gloves peeled away finger by finger. Stockings rolled down with ceremonial patience.

The women weren’t rushing toward nudity; they were conducting it. It felt closer to performance art. Back then, the tease was the point. Suggestion carried more voltage than exposure. 

(L) Beverly Powers in Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961). (R) Commissioned
artwork for From Dusk Till Dawn (1996) by Frank Frazetta

It lived somewhere between Beverly Powers’ playful striptease in Breakfast at Tiffany’s and the feverish heat of Salma Hayek’s dance at the Titty Twister in From Dusk Till Dawn. Glamour and danger, laughter and sweat. A joke told with a hip, a threat delivered with a smile.

We didn’t go for politics. We didn’t pretend it was empowerment. We went because we were young men who wanted to see beautiful, naked women. There’s no halo to hang on that. No clever excuse. It was appetite.

After the show, we’d buy drinks and talk to the girls—discussing art, music, and onstage mishaps. Some were sharp, funny, and more disciplined than the men watching them. Others, not so much. The fantasy stayed on stage. Offstage, it was just people. Looking back now, I can see how easily a young man mistakes spectacle for meaning.

I don’t romanticize it. But neither do I pretend it was the end of civilization. It was a chapter—perfumed, reckless, artful in its own way. A theater of flesh and spotlight.

And like any theater, the curtain fell.

~ Giovanni di Napoli, March 21st, The Feasts of Bl. Maria Candida of the Eucharist and San Benedetto da Nursia

Notes
[1] The sheela-na-gig is often interpreted as a medieval warning against lust, its stark imagery reminding the faithful of sin’s moral and spiritual consequences. Others believe such figures served a more ancient apotropaic purpose—warding off evil, much like a gargoyle.
[2] The claddagh ring symbolizes love, loyalty, and friendship, expressing a commitment rooted in faithfulness and enduring devotion. 

[3] “Peeping Tom” originates from the medieval legend of Lady Godiva, in which a tailor named Tom secretly watched her ride naked through Coventry and was struck blind as punishment for his voyeurism.

A Lenten Retreat for the Jubilee Year of 2026 for the 800th Anniversary of the Transitus of St. Francis of Assisi in San Francisco, California

Celebrating the Abruzzese Poetry of Giuseppe Rosato on World Poetry Day

Giuseppe Rosato was born in Lanciano (prov. of Chieti) in 1932. He writes poetry in his native Abruzzese as well as Italian, and is also a writer, journalist, and literary critic. He has taught literature and worked in the cultural services of the RAI. Rosato has published several collections of verse in Italian, including L’acqua felice (Schwarz, 1957), La vergogna del mondo (Manni, 2003) and Le cose dell’assenza (Book, 2012), and several novels, including Vedere la neve (Carabba, 2011), La neve al cancelletto di partenza (Manni, 2008) and Piccolo dizionario di Babele (Stilo, 2009). In Abruzzese, he has published La cajola d’ore (CET, 1956), Ecche lu fredde (Riccitelli, 1986), Ugn’addó (Grafica Campioli, 1991), L’ùtema lune, pref. F. Loi (Mobydick, 2002), E mó stém’accuscì (I libri del Quartino, 2003), La ’ddòre de la neve, pref. G. Tesio (Interlinea, 2006), Lu scure che s’attònne (Raffaelli, 2009), La nève (Carabba, 2010), and È tempe (Raffaelli, 2013).

Tré ffile
(from La Cajola d’Ore)

Ce šta nu file chiare all’oridzónne
ma ’ccućì cchiare e lende, stammatine,
’ccućì bianghe ca pare se cunfónne
cele e mundagne, senza cchiù ccunfine.

Nu file de recorde, assópre a quelle,
se sturcine e s’areturcine, strétte
ana feneštra aperte, an’ora bbelle
de chi sa quande, ch’arenasce mbette.

Nu tétte an’atru tétte e an’atre štenne
nu fume lende che ss’unisce e pije
la vije de lu cele; e va tremenne
pecché è nu file de malincunije.

Three Threads
(from Cajola d’Ore [The Golden Cage])

There is a clear thread on the horizon
but so clear and slow, this morning
so white that the sky and mountains
seem to blend together, without boundaries.

A thread of memory, above that,
unwinds and rewinds, tied
to an open window, to a beautiful hour
of who knows when, that is reborn in the chest.

One roof to another roof and to another stretches
a slow smoke that unites and takes
the path to the sky; and it trembles
because it is a thread of melancholy.

Nu Spròvele de Nève
(Da La ’ddòre de la nève)

Nu spròvele de nève, che gné qquande
se vulé fà assendì t’à resbejate
a notta fónne (e tu gné ana chiamate
si’ ite a guardà ’rrete ala persiane),
vé a dàrete lu salute: è mmarze,
già té spuppà le piande – te vò dice –
e le sacce ca tuttanome penze
sole ca è pprimavére.
Ma tu, almene tu me sò penzate
ca me vulive dice addije, addije
pe na lùtema vote…
Nu spròvele de nève, c’à durate
sćì e nò mèdz’ore. I’, mbacce alu vétre,
lu core a pizze le sò vište a ìrsene.

A Dusting of Snow
(from La ’ddòre de la Nève [The Scent of the Snow])

A dusting of snow, which as if when
it wanted to make itself heard
woke you up in the dead of night
(and you, as if to a call,
went to look from behind the shutter),
It comes to greet you: it’s March,
the plants are already sprouting- it wants to tell you-
and I know everyone thinks
only that it is spring:
but you, at least I thought to myself
you wanted to say farewell, farewell
for one last time…
A dusting of snow, which lasted
for half an hour.
I, my face on the glass, watched
it go away with a broken heart.

* Translations by Cav. Charles Sant’Elia