Un matto [Dietro ogni scemo c'è un villaggio]
Fabrizio De AndréVersione inglese di Beppe Gambetta, traduzione di James Keelaghan {{video... | |
A MADMAN [Behind Every Fool there's a Village] You try to have a world in your heart and can’t manage to express it with words, and the light of day separates the plaza into a laughing village and you, the fool, who passes. And not even the night leaves you alone: the others dream of themselves and you dream of them. And yes, even you would go to search for the words certain to make them listen to you: to amaze for a half hour, a book of history is enough. I tried to learn the Encyclopedia Treccani by heart, and after 'pig,' 'Majakowsky,' 'messy,' the others continued on until they read me 'crazy.' And without knowing to whom I owed my life, to a madhouse I returned it: here on the hill I sleep unwillingly. yet by now there is light in my thoughts. Here in the semi-darkness, now I invent words, though I miss a light, the light of the sun. My bones are still giving to life: they’re still giving it flowery grass. But life remained in the voices on the sly of those who lost the fool and mourn for him in the hill, of those who still whisper with the same irony, “A merciful death tore him out of craziness.” | There's a world you carry around in your chest you try to describe it, it's hard to express the clear light of day splits the plaza into the village that's mocking and a fool it is you and not even the nighttime stop you from dreaming they dream of themselves out of they're the fools dreaming Searching for words I hope can impress for the words that will startle the words with finesse to hold their attention I've learned a book for a start to try to lure the the pediatric candy by a heart after like within Laughlin and lawyer and a lazy the others continue until they found me crazy And now I don't know where my life came from so what difference if I give it to an asylum on a hill I can sleep when they put the pills in me here in the twirl they do not fill me in here in the twilight now I invent words although I miss the light and the curve of the earth And though I've gone there's still life in my bones to the flower and grass the grow around these stones and life is remembered in the voices of those who mourn for the fool in his last repose of those he'll still whisper this under their breath his insanity cure by merciful dad |