South Wind

di Gaetano Belverde

We arrive in late forenoon in the fishing village of Marzamemi: dusty and sunny streets, walls scraped from years of sea salt.
The music of the sea on all, uncontested master and inexhaustible font of maintenance, open door on a horizon turquoise.

photo: G.Leone
.

The marine breeze blows on the streaming hung out washing, among the minuscules streets of the village, the half closed windows to obstruct the intense African light, the seaport, the fishing nets stretched on the sun, the darning of the tears.

The dunes, daughters of the African ones, the fishing villages, the old tunnys house, accompany my wandering about the coast.

We descend still toward south till to the extreme edge of Sicily land that, sobing,subsides in the marine abysses among the historic columns where two seas marry in a dance without end, island of the current.
We immersing in the foamy waters of two seas that in this precise point are known.
We dozed cradled from the continual twist of the sea, with the look that loses itself to the horizon.
She in on mi bak massages me with old and natural ointment: oil of our countries mix to the foamy marine water, it spreads an intense perfume in the beach and protects skin burnt of the poignant sun.
But this is an other history. .we turn one`s eyes to the fleeting and tired sun, the air is cooled, we are already on Pegaso toward house.

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