Lu Friscalettu / The Reed Pipe

Fattu canna , e cu tanti pirtusa,
simplici , umili comu la to’ genti,
si nicareddu, ma teni racchiusa
‘na vuci ch’e` dilizia veramenti.

‘nSicilia ’nta li tempi gia` passati,
‘nta ddi iurnati di suli splinnenti,
lu picuraru facia gran sunati,
tinennu l’arma e lu cori cuntenti.

Vurria sapiri quant’avi chi esisti
e quantu sirinati hai fattu tu,
a quantu ‘namurati ci dicisti
d’amarisi pi sempi e ancora chiu`!

Quannu ti sentu di raru sunatu,
mi metti ‘ncori ‘na granni alligria
picchi` tu mi rammenti d’un passatu
ricordi belli di la terra mia.

Oh friscalettu sona, un ti firmari,
sona li tarantelli e cuntrananzi.
Stasira vogghiu tuttu ricurdari
di la Sicilia e di li so’ usanzi.

Born of bamboo and punctured with holes,
humble and simple, a pipe like its people.
Dimensions so slight, but hidden within
lies a voice which sings true in reedy delight.

In times long past, in Sicily old,
shepherds in meadows would pucker and play you.
The sun would enlighten and shine the day new
while you’d pipe pure contentment for the heart’s ear.

What would I give to know the whole tale
of serenades rendered oh so long ago?
How many the lovers sipped your sweet voice
to nourish their love into songs eternal?

Now rare is the time I hear that sound.
Played to my heartstrings and pitched to a bliss note,
it takes me back, it opens the past,
and memories dance the tune of my homeland.

Play on, sweet pipe, and please never cease!
Play tarantellas, yes, and play pastorals.
Let me circle tonight and simply recall
the traditions of Sicily, one, one and all.