Hearts burn as burns the earth
on a hot basking Sicilian morn
where is he? Playing his guitar
to which …he ballads with joy
See there is he strumming…..
A tune of melancholy
Waiting for her he looks
Towards an empty balcony
Cultivated upon lands birthing boons of oiled
Olives, green & black like children’s marbles
Next to honey oat bread with spices coiled
Cleanly cut in circles & served--then warbles
The musician, tenor in his words & voice
Choices flash past, memories of past desires
Of past deceits of past treacheries, the friars
Gather for alms—religion stilting on change
Spare currency for the poor, charity is feigned
Blamed by sins & guilt on his mind he rides
Alone in the companioned winds, he confides
To living life for a revolution, justice is blinded
So he scatters the blindfold between the poor
They pull at need, tightening the spited law
Minded by Giuliano, Robin Hood chimed it
Whores slept at his door, a chance to score
A hit or maybe a bit—of obliqueness to result
The lessening of their poor-ness bless the gust
That carries the breath of his breath, his lore
Spread like a clouded myth, bliss tore for more
Indulgent bias, he ringed quite his Jaw
Picking up his lupara, common place in Sicily
Blood bath of Corleone contradicts music of Italy
The moon is burning as burns his heart
Yearning for freedom & eternal art
Of war..is it finished
So that he can strum some notes in joy
See there he is strumming
A tuneful melody
Wishing for her he looks
There she stands..at the Balcony
