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Sesto San Giovanni

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Versione 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.


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