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Il Pescatore

Fabrizio De André
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La versione inglese di Dennis Criteser [2014]
THE FISHERMAN

There in the fading shade of sunset
Quiet sleepin' was a fisherman
He'd got a scar along his face
Just like a curious kind of smile

A man came running to the shore,
His eyes so big, just like a child's,
His eyes were fill'd with pain and fear
as a deep thirst for adventure.

He ask'd the old man for some bread,
"I am in haste and am so hungry";
He ask'd the old man for some wine,
"I am so thirsty and am an outlaw."

The old man he did open his eyes
Without e'en looking 'round himself;
He simply gave his bread and wine
To a man who was so thirsty and hungry.

No longer than one instant's warmth,
Then he fled away in the wind;
Before his eyes the sun was shining,
Behind his back, an old man sleeping.

Behind his back, an old man sleeping
And memories of pains endur'd,
Memories of a past springtime
In a yard, playing in the shadow.

Two gendarmes came dressed in arms,
Well mounted on their horses' back;
They ask'd the old man if he'd seen
Someone pass by him on the shore.

There in the shade of the last sun
Quiet sleepin' was a fisherman
He'd got a scar along his face
Just like a curious kind of smile

He'd got a scar along his face
Just like a curious kind of smile.
THE FISHERMAN

In the shadows of the last sunlight
a fisherman dozed off,
and he had a deeply furrowed brow
almost like a kind of smile.

To the beach came an assassin,
two eyes as big as a child’s,
two eyes enormous with fear -
they were mirrors of some adventure.

He begged the old man gimme some bread
I’ve little time and too much hunger, and
demanded of the old man gimme some wine
I’m thirsty, and I’m an assassin.

The old man opened his eyes a peak to the day
and didn’t even look around,
but he poured the wine and broke some bread
for whoever said he was thirsty and hungry.

There was a warmth in the moment, then
the assassin turned anew towards the wind
and turned again towards the sun,
behind him was a fisherman.

Yes, behind him was a fisherman,
and the memory is already painful,
is already the regret of an April that
played out in the shadows of some back yard.

Two gendarmes came on horseback,
they came armed in their saddles,
they asked the old man if anywhere nearby
there might have passed an assassin.

But in the shadows of the last sunlight
a fisherman dozed off,
and he had a deeply furrowed brow
almost like a kind of smile.
And he had a deeply furrowed brow
almost like a kind of smile.


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