Ntâ chiazza unni fuma lu mari
e Catania sapi di sali e limuni,
trasìu lu turista, tuttu ciatu e sonni,
cu l’occhi cchiù granni dû sò distinu.
Li tavuli lucìanu comu altari,
li bicchieri cantàvanu pianu,
e di la cucina vinìanu prufumi
ca facìanu trimari puru li santi.
“Portàtimi l’aragosta câ pasta,”
dissi, senza pinsari ô stòmacu.
Lu cuocu arrisìu sutta li baffi,
sapennu lu pisu di chiddu desideriu.
Muzzicò l’antipastu cu amuri,
sorbìu lu vinu russu e prufunnu,
e pi nu mumentu si cridìu re
dâ fami e dû piaciri dû munnu.
Ma quannu arrivò lu piattu granni,
na muntagna russiccia e fumanti,
l’arma ci ristò senza palori
e lu cori cuminciò a fari passu arrè.
Ogni furchettata parìa crisciiri,
la pasta allungava l’umbra so’,
e l’aragosta, regina dû mari,
divintò battagghia e punizioni.
Manciò la mità, forsi mancu,
poi si firmò cu l’occhi abbassati.
Li cammareri, tutti prioccupati:
“Signuri, nun v’â piaciuta?”
“No, no,” suspirò quasi mortu,
“è divina, parola sincera…
ma sta pasta crisci a ogni muzzicuni,
comu si avissi magia ntra la pignata.”
Ma iddi, siciliani testardi,
arrispunnìanu cu gran cunvinzioni:
“Chisti su’ purzioni normalissime,
cca si mancia accussì dâ nascita.”
Pagò, lassò na mancia ginirusa,
e cu la varogna appisa ô coddu
strisciò lentu versu l’Uber niuru
ca l’aspittava sutta li lampi.
E mentri l’hotel s’avvicinava
e l’Etna fumava luntanu,
pinsò cu pena e cu rancuri:
“Ozempic m’ha arruvinatu
n’àutru miraculu sicilianu.”
— Adam Donaldson Powell
______________________
Ozempic 🇺🇸
In the square where the sea-breeze smoked
and Catania tasted of salt and lemon,
the tourist entered, all breath and dreams,
with eyes far larger than fate intended.
The tables gleamed like little altars,
the glasses sang in quiet tones,
and from the kitchen drifted fragrances
strong enough to tempt even saints.
“Bring me the lobster pasta,”
he said, without consulting his stomach.
The chef smiled beneath his mustache,
already knowing the weight of that desire.
He bit lovingly into the appetizer,
sipped the deep red wine,
and for one perfect moment believed himself
the king of appetite and pleasure.
But when the great plate finally arrived—
a steaming mountain red with sauce—
his soul fell silent inside him,
and his heart quietly stepped backward.
Every forkful seemed to multiply.
The pasta lengthened its shadow.
The lobster, queen of the sea,
became both battle and punishment.
He managed half of it, perhaps less,
then surrendered with lowered eyes.
The waiters gathered, deeply concerned.
“Sir… you did not enjoy it?”
“No, no,” he sighed, nearly defeated,
“it is magnificent, honestly…
but this pasta grows larger with every bite,
as though enchanted in the pot.”
Yet the Sicilian waiters, stubborn and proud,
answered with complete conviction:
“These are perfectly normal portions.
This is how we eat in Sicily.”
He paid, left a generous tip,
and with embarrassment hanging from his neck
dragged himself toward the black Uber
waiting beneath the streetlights.
And as the hotel drew closer
and Etna smoked in the distance,
he thought with sorrow and resentment:
“Ozempic has ruined
another beautiful Sicilian miracle.”
— Adam Donaldson Powell
Leave a Reply