Canzone del padreFabrizio De André
|La versione inglese di Dennis Criteser |
|FATHER'S SONG||FATHER'S SONG|
|You want really leave to you eyes|
Only the dreams that don't make you awake?
Yes, Your Honour, but I want them greater.
There's a place there left by your father.
You have only to stay on the deck
And look at the other ships passing by,
The smaller ones must be guided to the river,
The bigger ones know well where to go.
So I have turned into my father
Already killed in a previous dream,
The Lawcourt gave me confidence,
The same motive for my acquittal and crime.
|“Do you really want to leave to your eyes|
only the dreams that don’t wake them up?”
“Yes, Your Honor, but I want them bigger.”
“Over there there is a seat, your father left it.
You don't have to do anything but stay on the bridge
and watch the other boats passing,
the smaller ones direct them to the river,
the bigger ones already know where to go.”
Thus I became my father,
killed in a previous dream.
The tribunal put their trust in me,
acquittal and crime the same motive.
|And now Bert, the laundress's son|
And a schoolmate of mine, likes best to learn
To count on cricket feelers,
He never plays with soap bubbles.
He was burying his mother in a washing machine dump
All wrapped in a sheet almost like a hero,
He stopped just a while suggesting to God
To keep on minding his own business.
He ran away for fear of getting rusty,
Yesterday's news reports he died from rust.
The sextons pick up often his leftovers
When people don't care of the rain falling on their heads.
|And now Berto, son of the laundrywoman,|
school-mate, he prefers to learn
how to count on cricket antennae.
He never uses soap bubbles for playing;
he buried his mother in a cemetery of washers
rolled up in a sheet almost like the heroes;
he stopped himself a moment to suggest to God
that He continue to attend to His own affairs,
and he ran away afraid of rusting.
Yesterday’s paper noted his rusty death.
The gravediggers collect some often
amongst people who let the rain fall on themselves.
|I've invested my money and love,|
A bank and a family give safe incomes.
I discuss about love with my wife,
We are so distant, but we feel so safe.
But every night, the other resists more and more,
There are men coming, one is skinnier than others,
He's got a suitcase and a couple of passports,
She's got the eyes of a woman I pay for.
Mr Inspector, that's just what I pay you for,
She's got the eyes of a woman belonging to me.
The skinny man's got always something in his hands,
A suitcase full of junk things, an expulsion order.
|I invested my money and my affections -|
bank and family give safe yields.
With my wife, love is discussed.
There are distances, there are no fears,
but every night she surrenders to me later.
Men come, there is one of them thinner,
he has a suitcase and two passports,
she has the eyes of a woman that I pay.
Commissioner, I pay you for this,
she has the eyes of a woman who is mine.
The thin man has busy hands,
a suitcase of pendants, an expulsion order.
|He has no more the look of his first joints,|
It's my youngest son, the less wished-for one.
He's got few rags he always stumbles on,
He doesn't care getting up even when he falls down.
And all my pretexts are catching fire now,
Guttuso's painting still to be authenticated,
Now my bed is wrapped up in flames,
Here's a dream that doesn't make me awake.
Your Honour, you're a motherfucker,
I wake up again, and I wake up in a sweat;
Now wait, I'm coming not in dreams,
We'll meet for real, that's a turning point.
|He no longer has the face of his first hashish,|
he is my last son, the least wanted.
He has few rags where to falter,
standing up is not important to him, nor when he fell:
and my alibis catch fire
the Guttuso painting still to be authenticated.
Now the flames envelop me in bed,
these the dreams that don’t wake you up.
Your Honor, you are a son of a sow,
I still wake up and I wake up sweaty.
Now wait for me outside of the dream.
We’ll see each other indeed,
I’ll start again from the top.