Springtime in an Arbëresh Village
(Pranvera në katundin arbresh)

The buds emerge from the cracks in the rocks
And from the hummocks on the path to the cliff.
The tender tiny faces with thin stems
Listen to the conversations of the strong-fisted women
Returning from the fields
And none of them mentions the spring.

My days there passed as in a dream
With eyes fixed on the early spring flowers drowned
In the month of April's wild rising grass.

I woke up on the day of my departure with a wreath
Of meaningless words in my hand.