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Rating: This is how Sicily was born, grew up, and died.
The poor man toils under the sun, occupied even in the shade of olive branches, marking the passing time by hoeing
and his face dries like the earth, rough like a rock, carved by the sweat of the sky.
Even the donkey is livelier, without the mouth muzzled by the owner.
The little girl without shoes and trousers, all sunburned, colors
with spike flowers in blood red the day that ends.
Tossing and turning in torment,
returning to the shop the lament starts again.
“Cursed be the moment
When I opened my eyes on this earth
In this hell.”
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