In Guernica

Joan Baez
Language: English

List of versions

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Read by Joan Baez
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Album: Baptism: A Journey Through Our Time [1968]

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baezbaptismUna poesia di Norman Rosten (1914-1995), dall'album "Baptism: A Journey Through Our Time" (1968), che conteneva poesie lette e cantate da Joan Baez. Su quel che successe a Guernica riteniamo inutile dilungarci, la cosa dovrebbe essere ancora troppo nota -anche al giorno d'oggi- per doverne parlare. O forse no? Chissà. [CCG/AWS Staff]

A poem by Norman Rosten (1914-1995) from the album "Baptism: A Journey Through Our Time" (1968), including poems read and sung by Joan Baez. We wouldn't spend too much talking about what happened in Guernica, it should be still so much known, even nowadays, to deserve reminding. Or maybe not? Who knows. [AWS/CCG Staff]
In Guernica the dead children were laid out in order upon the sidewalk, in their white starched dresses, in their pitiful white dresses.

On their foreheads and breasts are the little holes where death came in as thunder, while they were playing their important summer games.

Do not weep for them, madre. They are gone forever, the little ones, straight to heaven to the saints, and God will fill the bullet holes with candy.

2005/10/16 - 15:50

Language: Italian

Versione italiana di Riccardo Venturi
5 giugno 2008

A Guernica i bambini morti furono distesi e disposti in ordine sul marciapiede, coi loro vestitini bianchi inamidati, coi loro poveri vestitini bianchi.

Avevano, sulla fronte e sul petto, dei piccoli fori attraverso i quali la morte era arrivata come un tuono, mentre stavano giocando ai loro importanti giochi estivi.

Non piangere per loro, madre. Sono andati via per sempre, quei piccoli, diritti al paradiso dei santi, e Dio riempirà di caramelle i fori delle pallottole.

2008/6/5 - 02:17

Language: French

Version française de Riccardo Venturi
5 juin 2008

À Guernica, les enfants morts furent déposés en ordre sur le trottoir, dans leurs petits vêtements blancs empesés, dans leurs pauvres petits vêtements blancs.

Ils avaient, sur le front et la poitrine, des petits trous par lesquels la mort les avait transpercés comme une foudre, tandis qu'ils jouaient à leurs importants jeux d'été.

Ne pleure pas pour eux, madre. Ils ne reviendront jamais, ces petits-là. Ils sont partis au paradis des saints, et Dieu remplira de bonbons les trous des balles.

2008/6/5 - 02:18

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