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Sidùn

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

yaldì shelì yaldì
shelì
sfatàyim shmenìm beshèmesh
devàsh devàsh

gidùl emekhà
màtok shapìr
sahùt behòm hakayìts
hamakhanìk

veakshàv kirìsh dam, oznàyim
veshnèy khalàv

ve’eynèi hekhayyalìm keklavìm nilhavìm
'im haketsèf bapè
tsayadèi talìm
sheràdfu et haanàshim kmo tsayìd
‘ad shehadàm haperài
khibàh et tsimaònhem dam
veakhar-kàkh habàrzel bagaròn, sharshèret hakelè
ubapetsà’ot, hazerà hara’ìli shel hagarùsh
madù’a lo yekholìm yotèr ligdòl mamìshur lamezàh
‘etsìm lo shibolèt lo ben

shalòm yaldì, hayerushà
mustàra
ba’ìr bazò
shebo’èr shebo’èr
beèrev shenofèl
uba’òr hagadòl haroshèf hazè
lemavètkha katàn.
SIDON

My little boy, mine
oh mine,
fat lips in the sun,
of honey, of honey.
Sweet benign tumor
of your mother,
squeezed from the damp mugginess
of summer, of summer,
and now blood clotted ears
and milk white teeth.

And the eyes of the soldiers, rabid dogs
with foaming mouths, lamb hunters
following people like game
for as long as the wild blood has not spent its desire.
And after the iron in the throat, the irons of the prison,
and in the wounds the spiteful seed of deportation
so that from our line, from the plain to the pier,
no more can grow tree nor spike nor son.

Goodbye my child, my heritage
is lost
in this city
that burns, that burns
in the evening that descends,
and in this great light from the fire
for your little death.


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