Khorakhané (A forza di essere vento)
Fabrizio De AndréLa versione inglese di Dennis Criteser [2014] | |
KHORAKHANE | KHORAKHANÉ (BY WAY OF BEING WIND) |
The hearbeats slow down, the head walks on in that poddle of piss and concrete in that field blown by the wind by dint of being the wind | The heart slows, the head walks into that well of piss and cement, to that camp torn by the wind, by way of being wind. |
I bear the name of all baptisms each name the seal of a pass for a ford, a country, a cloud, a song a diamond hidden in bread but for one humour in blood so sweet for the same reason to travel, travelling | I carry the name of all the baptisms, every name the seal of a permit for a ford, a land, a cloud, a chant, a diamond hidden in bread, for a single temper of blood most sweet, for the same reason of the voyage, voyaging. |
The heartbeats slow down, the head walks on in the dark of forlorn swings some gypsies stopped and became Italian like copper hung to get brown on a wall Being able to read the book of the world with everchanging words and no writing on the narrow paths in the palm of a hand those frightening secrets until a man meets you and won't know himself anymore and every country lights up and peace surrenders | The heart slows and the head walks into a darkness of abandoned merry-go-rounds. Some Gypsies settled down, Italian like copper growing dark against a wall. |
Sons would fall from the calendar Yugoslavia, Poland, Hungary soldiers would take them all and all they threw away | Knowing how to read the book of the world with iridescent words and no writing in the narrow paths in the palm of the hand, the secrets that strike fear until a man meets you and doesn’t recognize himself, and every land catches fire and peace surrenders. |
And then Mirka at St. Georges in May * between the flowers flames, with laughs and drinks a relief in tears flooding the eyes and from the eyes falling down | The children were falling from the calendar, Yugoslavia, Poland [*], Hungary, the soldiers were taking everyone and they were throwing everyone away. |
Now rise you childbrides the time has come to go blue veins on your wrists another day for begging | And then Mirka at St.George [**] in May amidst the flames of the flowers, to laugh, to drink, and a relief of tears invading the eyes and, from the eyes, falling. |
And if this means stealing a scanty bread out of poverty and misfortunes on the mirror of this kampina ** to my eyes, clear as a farewell that can only tell who's got in his mouth God's point of view | Now wake up, child brides, because the time has come to go. With the sky blue veins of the wrists even today one goes to ask for handouts. |
I'll lay my head on your shoulder and I will dream of the sea and tomorrow a wood fire so that the light blue air become home | And if this means stealing, this line of bread between misery and fortune, in the mirror of this encampment, to my eyes clear like a farewell, he can call it that only one who knows about taking into his mouth the point of view of God. |
Who'll be there to tell who'll be it'll be who stays on I'll follow this migration I'll follow this wings stream | I’ll lay my head on your shoulder and I will make a dream out of the sea, and tomorrow a fire out of wood so that the blue air becomes home. Who will be there to tell the story? Who will be there? There will be whoever remains. I’ll follow this migrating, I’ll follow this movement of wings. |
** kampina: mobile tent