Sesto San Giovanni
GangVersione inglese dal Sito ufficiale dei Ned Ludd | |
SESTO SAN GIOVANNI Early shift, Monday morning at six Sesto San Giovanni Billy Bragg is singing in the fog to comfort you in your thirties. So distant are the towers of Milan and its blind lights, in a highway jam, all the promises are felt as betrayed. The siren is calling eight hours, that's for a whole life, you clock another day in and carry on without a way off. The dialects are stifled in the reign of noise, in the painting division the hours won't ever pass. And the fog is seizing us, we can't tell day from night, seems to be the same season, spring, summer or winter. And when the fog is falling into the arms of the night, we just feel shadowy ghosts sitting on a line bus. The factory steals and devours our very best years we should at least work less if we can't give up working. My peasant father's dreams are surrendering now. My brother's been in jail for ten years but he comes back tomorrow. And the fog is seizing us, we can't tell day from night, seems to be the same season, spring, summer or winter. And when the fog is falling into the arms of the night, we just feel shadowy ghosts sitting on a line bus. | SESTO SAN GIOVANNI First shift monday morning 6 o’ clock Sesto San Giovanni Marino’s singing in the fog comforts your 30 years Far away are the towers of Milan now Its blind lights Stuck in a queue on the ringroad Their promises betrayed. The siren sings 8 hours It’s always the same old story You clock out and go ahead without any escape Nowadays dialects are suffocated by the kingdom of the noise In the painting department time passes very slowly. The factory steals our best years At least try to work less hours if you can’t avoid working there My farmer father’s dreams Now raise their hands My brother has been in jail for 10 years But tomorrow he will come back. And the fog that covers us Confuses day and night It seems always the same season Winter and spring. And when the fog comes down In the arms of the evening Makes us feel as ghosts On a coach. And the fog that covers us confuses day and night It seems always the same season Winter and spring. And when the fog comes down In the arms of the evening Makes us feel as ghosts On a couch. |