Nun Ponnu / They Cannot

Li spuntuna di li zabbari,
li spini puntuti
di pali di ficurinia,
li ruvetti, l’areddara,
nun ponnu punciri,
grattari sfardari o firiri
lu carattari di li petri,
li rocchi e li scogghi
di st’isula chiamata Sicilia.

Ne` ponnu
grattari, sfardari o firiri
‘sta terra ginirusa antica,
chi cu lu suli d’oru
li nutrica.

Nun ponnu
sfardari o firiri
lu celu, l’acqua di lu mari,
l’alitu di lu ventu.

Ne` spini o spuntuna,
ne` l’armi di li cunquistatura
hannu pututu canciari
li biddizzi di natura
di st’isula magica,
tranquilla, tragica….
Bedda
comu lu surrisu di ‘na picciotta
cu li capiddi scioti a lu ventu,
chi osserva l’orizzonti
dunni lu celu, la terra, lu mari,
si funninu abbrazzati
in un attu d’amuri eternu.

The long spikes of the agaves
the sharp needles
on the prickly pear leaves,
the thorn bushes and the ivy
cannot prick
scratch, wear out or harm
the character of stones,
the cliffs and rocks
of this isle we call Sicily

Nor can they scratch
wear out or harm
this generous and ancient land,
that nurtures them
with its golden sun.

They cannot
wear out or harm
the sky, the water of the sea,
the breath of the wind.

Neither the thorns nor the pointed spikes,
nor the weapons of the conquerors
have been able to change
the natural beauties
of this magical island,
peaceful, tragic,
beautiful,
just like the smile of a young woman
with her hair blowing in the breeze
looking at the horizon
where sky, land, and sea
blend in embrace
in an act of everlasting love.