Il suonatore Jones
Fabrizio De AndréFiddler Jones, Edgar Lee Masters | |
IONAS CANTOR In pulvirulento vortice videbant alli siccitatem, in eo ego videbam Iohannulae limum in antiquis festivis choreis. Meae terrae audiebam sonitus vibrationesque: meum cor erat. Cur ergo eam colam rursus? Melius mī non apparebat. Libertatem vidi dormientem in agris cultis caelō pecuniisque, caelō amorēque, filō spinis instructō protectis Libertatem surgentem vidi quotiescumque sonarem puellis in choreā fremitantibus, alicui ebrio sodali. Item, cum homines sciant, et bene omnes sciunt te ad cantum peritum, tibi erit canendum totum vitae cursum, te delectat hominum auditio, Ad finem pervēni in incultis agris, ad finem cum meā tibiā fractā, ridens raucā vocē quanta commemoravi! Et nihil desideravi. | THE EARTH keeps some vibration going There in your heart, and that is you. And if the people find you can fiddle, Why, fiddle you must, for all your life. What do you see, a harvest of clover? Or a meadow to walk through to the river? The wind’s in the corn; you rub your hands For beeves hereafter ready for market; Or else you hear the rustle of skirts Like the girls when dancing at Little Grove. To Cooney Potter a pillar of dust Or whirling leaves meant ruinous drouth; They looked to me like Red-Head Sammy Stepping it off, to “Toor-a-Loor.” How could I till my forty acres Not to speak of getting more, With a medley of horns, bassoons and piccolos Stirred in my brain by crows and robins And the creak of a wind-mill—only these? And I never started to plow in my life That some one did not stop in the road And take me away to a dance or picnic. I ended up with forty acres; I ended up with a broken fiddle— And a broken laugh, and a thousand memories, And not a single regret. |