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La guerra di Piero

Fabrizio De André
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INGLESE / ENGLISH [2]
PETER’S WAR

You lie slain, in a cornfield sleeping,
and neither the rose or the ladytulip
are watching you in the shadow of ditches,
but thousands of blood-red poppies.

"Along the banks of this country stream
I’d like to spy the silver pike swimming,
and not a suite of soldiers’ corpses
brought with the stream, like dead branches."

You said so, and it was a cold winter,
and, just like others, you’re bound to hell
marching so sadly to your sad duty,
the wind’s spitting snow in your face.

Stop your steps, Peter, stop your steps now!
Allow the wind to fondle your body,
you bear the voice of all the fallen
who gave their lives for a wooden cross.

But you didn’t hear them, and time passed by
with the seasons at a java step
and so you were ready to cross the border
in a warm and bright spring day.

And walking on shouldering your soul
you noticed a man down there in the valley
walking in the same sad mood as you
but with a uniform of a different colour.

Shoot him, Peter, shoot at him now!
Shoot again to make sure he’s dead,
until he falls dead to the ground
and covers his own blood deadly wounded.

"And if I aim at his front or at his heart
I’ll leave him only the time to die,
but I shall have plenty of time
to look in the eyes of a dying man."

And while you are so kind to him,
he turns around, sees you and gets frighten’d;
he brings his rifle to firing position
and doesn’t repay you for your favour.

You fell to the ground without even a cry
and you noticed in no less than a moment
that you’d not have enough time
to beg pardon for all your sins.

You fell to the ground without even a cry
and you noticed in no less than a moment
that your life had be put an end,
and that you’d never come back home.

"Oh Jenny darling, to die in May
one needs much and maybe too much courage.
Oh Jenny darling, I’d like best
to go to hell in a cold winter day."

And while the corn was listening to your words
you held your rifle clenched in your hands,
you held your words frozen in your mouth
that would never have melt in the sunrays.

You lie slain, in a cornfield sleeping,
and neither the rose or the ladytulip
are watching you in the shadow of ditches,
but thousands of blood-red poppies.
PETER'S WAR

You lie buried in a barley field
There's no rose, and not a tulip
Watching on you from the ditches
But it's a thousand of red poppies

"Along the banks of my brook
I want silver trouts to swim
Not soldiers' corpses
Carried by the flow"

That's what you said, and it was in winter
While, with the others, heading to hell
Marching sadly, as those who have to
Wind was spitting snow in your face

Stop, Peter, stop for a moment
Let the wind come to you
You carry the voices of those who fell
Who gave his life got a cross in return

But you didn't listen, and time passed
And so did seasons, step after step
And you finally got to the border
In a beautiful spring morning

And you were marching, your soul on your shoulders
When you saw a man from the distance
Walking, in your very same mood
Clothed in different colours

Shoot him, Peter, shoot him now
As you do it, shoot him again
Until you see him bloodless
Fall on his own blood

And if I hit his head or heart
He'll have no time but for dying
But I'll have my time for watching
Watching the eyes of a dying man

And while you behave so kindly to him
He turns, sees you and fears
And, his hands on his rifle,
He doesn't return your kindness

You fell on the ground without a moan
And you knew at once
That your life was ending that day
And there was no coming home

"Jenny, darling, dying in May
That takes way too much courage
Sweet Jenny, straight to hell
I'd have rather gone in winter"

And as the barley listened
Holding your rifle in your hand
Holding words within your mouth
Too cold to melt in the sun

You lie buried in a barley field
There's no rose, and not a tulip
Watching on you from the ditches
But it's a thousand of red poppies


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