Uomini persi

Claudio Baglioni

Originale

Versione inglese di Alberta Beccaro

UOMINI PERSI Anche chi dorme in un angolo pulcioso coperto dai giornali, le mani a cuscino ha avuto un letto bianco da scalare e un filo di luce accesa dalla stanza accanto due piedi svelti e ballerini a dare calci al mare nell'ultima estate da bambino piccole giostre con tanta luce e poca gente e un giro soltanto. Anche questi altri strangolati da cravatte che dentro la ventiquattrore portano la guerra sono tornati con la cartella in braccio al vento che spazza via le foglie del primo giorno di scuola raggi di sole che allungavano i colori sugli ultimi giochi tra i montarozzi di terra e al davanzale di una casa senza balconi due dita a pistola. Anche quei pazzi che hanno sparato alle persone bucandole come biglietti da annullare hanno pensato che i morti li coprissero perché non prendessero freddo e il sonno fosse lieve hanno guardato l'aeroplano e poi l'imboccano e son rimasti così senza inghiottire e né sputare su una stradina e quattro case in una palla di vetro che a girarla viene giù la neve. Anche questi cristi caduti giù senza nome e senza croci son stati marinai dietro gli occhiali storti e tristi sulle barchette coi gusci delle noci e dove sono i giorni di domani le caramelle ciucciate nelle mani di tutti gli uomini persi dal mondo di tutti i cuori dispersi nel mondo. Quelli che comprano la vita degli altri vendendogli bustine e la peggiore delle vite hanno scambiato figurine e segreti con uno più grande, ma prima doveva giurare teste crollate nel sedile di dietro sulle vie lunghe e clacsonanti del ritorno dalle gite e un po' di febbre nei capelli ed una maglia che non vuole passare. E i disperati che seminano bombe tra poveri corpi come fossero vuoti a perdere, come se fossero pupazzi seduti sui calcagni han rovesciato sassi e un mondo di formiche che scappava le voci aspre delle madri che li chiamavano sotto un quadrato di stelle, dentro i cortili dei palazzi e la famiglia a comprare il cappotto nuovo e tutti intorno a dire come gli stava. Anche questi occhi fame di nascere per morir di fame si son passati un dito di saliva sui ginocchi e tutti dietro a un pallone in uno sciame leggeri come stracci e dove fanno a botte dov'è un papà che caccia via la notte di tutti gli uomini persi dal mondo di tutti i cuori dispersi nel mondo

LOST MEN Even that guy who sleeps in a corner full of fleas covered with newspapers his own hands bent in the shape of a pillow has had a white bed to climb, and a thread of electric light coming from the room near his own Two feet which were fast and dancing, and were kicking at the sea In his own last summer as a young boy Little merry-go-rounds with lots of lights and few people on board And only one single round to go. Even these other ones, strangled by their own ties, who carry the war itself in their briefcases, they used to come back, carrying their schoolbags flying in the wind which swept away the leaves from their first day of school Sun beams which prolonged the colors Over their last outdoor games between the ground knolls and, from the window sill of a house with no balconies, two fingers in the shape of a pistol. Even those crazy ones who have gunned down all those people making holes in them, as if they were tickets to be stamped They tought that the dead ones would’ve covered them to keep them from getting cold, and to grant them a sweet sleep They looked at the plane and now they enter it And they stayed that way, without either gulping or spitting in a little street, and just four houses enclosed in a ball made of glass which has snow coming down when you roll it around Even those Christs who fell down without a name and without a cross they have been sailors, behind their bent and sad-looking spectacles on their little boats made with nutshells And where are the days of tomorrow the sticky caramels clutched in the hands of all the lost men of the world of all the lost hearts in the world Those ones who buy the other people’s lives by selling them little envelopes and the worst life ever possible They have exchanged sports cards and secrets with an older boy, but he had to swear first. Heads dropped there in the backseat On those long ways back home from some excursion, resounding with car horns And a bit of a fever between their hair, and a sweater which never fits. And the desperate ones who sow bombs between poor bodies as if they were empty bottles as if they were rag dolls Sitting then on their heels, they have lifted some stone and a whole world of ants was running away. The shriek voices of their mothers were calling them under a square of stars, inside the playgrounds of the tenement houses And the family had just bought a new coat and everyone was around him, telling how it looked on him Even those eyes Hunger of being born to end up dieing of starvation They smeared with their finger some spit over their knees and everyone was after a soccer ball, like a swarm As weightless as rags, and where do they have fistfights now? Where is now a daddy who chases away the night of all the lost men of the world of all the lost hearts in the world