One day I'll come home,
To bask in golden sun,
To swim in bluest waves.
Through wheat fields, I'll chase Persephone,
Knowing I can't save her,
Yet love will prevail—
Dramatic kisses beneath erupting Etna.

I long to meet among Greek ruins,
To explore Phoenician treasures.
I wish to be engulfed in the aromas
And candor of happy vendors,
Filling fresh markets all morning long.

I dream of your quietness,
And the loudness of passionate people.
I ache for home,
My sweet Sicily.

Sicilian translation:

Un jornu mi ritornu a casa,
A vagghiari di lu suli d'oru,
Pi nutari nta l'unni cchiù blu.
Attraversu li campi di frummentu, haju assicutari Persefuni,
Sapennu ca nun la pozzu sarvari,
Eppuru l'amuri privalerà...
Vasati drammàtici sutta l'Etna ca scuppia.

Anziamu di 'ncuntrari ammenzu a ruvini grechi,
Pi esplurari li tesori finici.
Vuliu èssiri nghiuttutu di l'aromi
E candor di vinnituri filici,
Riempi li mircati frischi tutta la matina.

Sunnu la tò quieti,
E la vuci di genti appassiunati.
Mi duluri pi casa,
Sicilia mia duci.

Some sort of checklist people have,
That may be found in a photograph.
It could be a one way ticket to Budapest,
Or scaling the top of Mount Everest.
Seeing the Eiffel Tower and Mona Lisa,
Or a picture with the leaning tower of Pisa.
Swimming with turtles in the Bahamas,
Or exploring Peru in search of llamas.
Lying on white sandy beaches in Sicily,
There’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.

A vintner of aged leaves in the wine-press of the sun,
Thin-skinned like the lucent grapes from the vine-runs
Of the island trellises and teal-cordoned waves, lowest slung
Fruit-laden bough of sky, Sicily, whose ateliers of rolled cigarettes
And uprolled sleeves like tides tease smoke into studio paints,
The black apple wine of storm made into mouthfuls of pulp rain,
Before the sunrise is gathered again in fishing nets and crab pots,
The coastal towns with their salted roofs of pied clay and pigeons
Along the lava stone streets, and night from the chanteuse of Egypt,
Singing her coral to heron, as when her bird-like barefooted slaves
Left tracks across Old Kingdom wastes, so this dreaming old man
Leaves his wrinkles to these grapes and across the sand-island pillow,
Asleep with his fathers, hay-hauling peasants of wandering darkness.

Sicily is the golden caesura of history,
Where the human poem is paused to hear
The exalted precipice of its own sigh.

The earth-dark octaves of her singing hair,
Sung-circles of campagna, the citadel,
And campanile bells in the Segestano air.
The pail sits like an expectant kiss on the lip of the well.

I left a part of me along the cobble streets of Sicily.
Somewhere between the night clubs and the beaches I fell in love.
It was all at once, this uncanny emotion welled deep inside of me.
the sun left kisses on my skin by day
kisses on my cheeks by beautiful people at night.
my heart had never felt so light.
I left pieces of me through Italy