Son of Sicily
I am a Son. Of Hajar and Isaac. A Son. Of Theodora and Archimedes. A Son. Of the Phoenician Sailor and the Spanish Colonialist. Of the enslaved Ethiopian and the North Italian Mercenary. But now the branding iron only burns me with “European” Put me in a cage with axe-grinding, hut-dwelling, blond-haired invaders Of my land of science and architecture. Make me hate my cousins across the Sea. Yes! We are people of the land. Yes! We enjoy our ornamented festivals and our families. Yes! We are a people of warm spices and warm gestures and warm voices. They say we don’t work hard. Lazy, Leaches to the system. My grandfather’s callused hands disagree. And wherever we migrate, we break our backs. We are a nation of workaholics. But you cannot be a workaholic without work. Work needs infrastructure, Needs investment, needs policy, Needs Care and Focus. Please tell me how Europe has made it better here. We wind down into circles of corruption. It’s all our fault. But there’s so much more. The axe-grinding invader put on a suit and lowered their voice But the heart is still cold like the tundra they retreat from in the winter. They make the game. Policy. But at the end of it all, I give thanks to God And to the warm spices And to the hot ground For raising me. And I strive, Because striving is all I can do. I must remember that I am a Son.
