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Un matto [Dietro ogni scemo c'è un villaggio]

Fabrizio De André
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Versione 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


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