Khorakhané (A forza di essere vento)Fabrizio De André
|La versione inglese di Dennis Criteser |
|KHORAKHANE||KHORAKHANÉ (BY WAY OF BEING WIND)|
|The hearbeats slow down, the head walks on|
in that poddle of piss and concrete
in that field blown by the wind
by dint of being the wind
|The heart slows, the head walks|
into that well of piss and cement,
to that camp torn by the wind,
by way of being wind.
|I bear the name of all baptisms|
each name the seal of a pass
for a ford, a country, a cloud, a song
a diamond hidden in bread
but for one humour in blood so sweet
for the same reason to travel, travelling
|I carry the name of all the baptisms,|
every name the seal of a permit
for a ford, a land, a cloud, a chant,
a diamond hidden in bread,
for a single temper of blood most sweet,
for the same reason of the voyage, voyaging.
|The heartbeats slow down, the head walks on|
in the dark of forlorn swings
some gypsies stopped and became Italian
like copper hung to get brown on a wall
Being able to read the book of the world
with everchanging words and no writing
on the narrow paths in the palm of a hand
those frightening secrets
until a man meets you and won't know himself anymore
and every country lights up and peace surrenders
|The heart slows and the head walks|
into a darkness of abandoned merry-go-rounds.
Some Gypsies settled down, Italian
like copper growing dark against a wall.
|Sons would fall from the calendar|
Yugoslavia, Poland, Hungary
soldiers would take them all
and all they threw away
|Knowing how to read the book of the world|
with iridescent words and no writing
in the narrow paths in the palm of the hand,
the secrets that strike fear
until a man meets you and doesn’t recognize himself,
and every land catches fire and peace surrenders.
|And then Mirka at St. Georges in May *|
between the flowers flames, with laughs and drinks
a relief in tears flooding the eyes
and from the eyes falling down
|The children were falling from the calendar,|
Yugoslavia, Poland [*], Hungary,
the soldiers were taking everyone
and they were throwing everyone away.
|Now rise you childbrides|
the time has come to go
blue veins on your wrists
another day for begging
|And then Mirka at St.George [**] in May|
amidst the flames of the flowers, to laugh, to drink,
and a relief of tears invading the eyes
and, from the eyes, falling.
|And if this means stealing|
a scanty bread out of poverty and misfortunes
on the mirror of this kampina **
to my eyes, clear as a farewell
that can only tell who's got in his mouth
God's point of view
|Now wake up, child brides,|
because the time has come to go.
With the sky blue veins of the wrists
even today one goes to ask for handouts.
|I'll lay my head on your shoulder|
and I will
dream of the sea
and tomorrow a wood fire
so that the light blue air
|And if this means stealing,|
this line of bread between misery and fortune,
in the mirror of this encampment,
to my eyes clear like a farewell,
he can call it that
only one who knows about taking into his mouth
the point of view of God.
|Who'll be there to tell|
it'll be who stays on
I'll follow this migration
this wings stream
|I’ll lay my head on your shoulder|
and I will make a dream out of the sea,
and tomorrow a fire out of wood
so that the blue air becomes home.
Who will be there to tell the story?
Who will be there? There will be whoever remains.
I’ll follow this migrating,
I’ll follow this movement of wings.