Inside a grey Mini, black-roofed and humming,
houses and streets seem to race past in a blur.
Green shutters, trees gliding by,
faces half-remembered,
my mother’s made-up eyes
shining at the close of the Seventies.
My sister’s long braid dances in the breeze,
my brother’s voice — a bright, light laugh —
sings and plays with the littlest one,
as if time were only a game.
My father, at the traffic light, tightens his grip on the steering wheel: the bile rises,
First gear… second… we’re off again,
heading toward the Politeama square.
The arancina burns in hand: – Blow! –
Then, in Piazza Croci,
our fingers stain red with prickly pear juice.
From deep within me, a music begins to bloom…
Pistimpanipistipì,Pistimpanipistipì…
Stone slabs, fountains, Villa Giulia.
My father is the voice of places —
he knows each corner, every unspoken story.
We follow him with hungry eyes,
gathering the world, fragment by fragment.
High above,
atop Monte Pellegrino,
a Star keeps watch…
And the car rolls on..
Pistimpanipistipì,Pistimpanipistipì…