This poem was sent to us by Elisabetta Zezza from Italy
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The wayfarer eats what's offered him
in exchange for a tale or a song.
There's no food that can harm him,
since encounters heal
just like songs do, and tales, too.
It happened once, around noontime,
that the wayfarer, invited in,
was asked to sit
on a low, white stone wall,
under the shade of a creeping vine,
in such a way
as to behold the sea.
There he was served "spaghetti"
topped with dry breadcrumbs,
and maybe some olives
and then some figs, perhaps, that's all,
as he allowed his gaze to wander on
towards the far horizon.
Garlic cloves in a large pan
frying in oil till golden brown
then taken out
and in the fragrant oil,
dry breadcrumbs frying
till crisp and gold.
The cooked pasta is now drained
and to the sauce added,
then sprinkled with pepper,
stirred and served, topped
with basil leaves, freshly chopped.
Another time, again at noon,
a dish of pasta was offered him,
now with tomato sauce and basil leaves.
On every dish the cook arranged
fried egg-plants, cut into stars,
for he loved beauty, as artists do.
That's how the pilgrim feeds,
accepting all is offered him,
for nothing can be harmful,
since encounters heal,
just like songs do, and tales, too.
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