Primavera on Mulberry Street

PRIMAVERA ON MULBERRY STREET

By A. S. Maulucci

 

 

The old ones, i vecchi

sit in the Mulberry Street cafe in Manhattan

sipping red wine from Tuscano

and dunking their biscotti from the bakery around the corner

talking of their giovinezza, their days of gold and honey

reminiscing about that distant land

remembering with reverence

a street corner

            a field of olive trees   

                        a snow-covered mountain

                                    a wall covered with lilac

                        a stretch of pebbled shore

            a public square

as a tenderness comes and goes in their eyes

and their voices grow brittle

while their memories melt away

like the candles on the tables.

 

The young ones, i giovani

            glide by with a natural grace

a new rhythm in their swaying hips

            an ancient swagger in their stride

talking of their rough pleasures

            with a tigerish gleam in their every glance.

 

Furtively, with a mixture of love and hate

the old ones watch them pass in silence,

their faces go dead for a moment

then flicker back to life.

Someone says,

“Youth is a country you can only visit once” in Calabrian

and someone else says,

“Let’s drink to that” in American

and someone else says,

“Cent’an!” in earnest,

meaning may you live a hundred years of life,

and they all raise their glasses and drink

the old red wine made with grapes from their native land

with a stubborn joy piercing through their hearts.