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La collina, o Dormono sulla collina

Fabrizio De André
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THE HILL - Dalla Spoon River Anthology di Edgar Lee Masters. THE...
DORM’NO SU LA COLLINA

Do’ è ch’è gito Gusto
morto a trent’ anni de’ polmonite e do’ è Sesto
‘na vita in miniera
Do’ è ch’enno i Ripanti
Paolo e Giuànne del Peveriero
du’ che la caccia sapevan co’ era

Do’ è che sarà poi volato
Enzino l’impiegato
d’la covata era lu’ ‘l primo nato

Dorm’no, dorm’no su la collina
Dorm’no, dorm’no su la collina

Do’ è l’Elda e do’ è la Peppa
da i cori grossi comm’ du’ sporte
De troppo còre, me sa, ch’enno morte.
E l’Angelina, sempre su è giù dal Piano a l’ospedale spenta d’nverno da’ ‘n brutto male.

Do’ sarà adè la Gusta
che a scrive e legge m’avea ‘mparato
‘nte c’la casetta do’ anch’io so’ nato

Dorm’no, dorm’no su la collina
Dorm’no, dorm’no su la collina

Do’ è Tito del Serrone
che me l’arvedo a batte e méte
‘n bicchier de vino pe’ spegne la sete
E te, Peppino, do’ sei gito
coi sogni chiusi drent’ al cervello a settant’anni n’eterno monello

Questi ch’io li arpenso spesso
e non soltanto ‘l giorno dj Morti
vorrìa sape’ se davéro en’ risorti

Dorm’no, dorm’no su la collina
Dorm’no, dorm’no su la collina

Do’ è Italo “P’liccione”
Sparito, via, senza fa’ rumore
duro de pelle, tenero ‘l core
Lu’ che spaccava cerque, ‘mpastava malta e mai ‘n pensiero
a soldi, donne o al Dio del cielo

Me pare de sentillo ancora che m’arcontava de le fongate
de le bisbocce e de gran magnate

E po’ l’ultima volta
De fianco a lu’ davanti al foco
Che dice “D’tempo me n’armane poco”
THE HILL

Where are Elmer, Herman, Bert, Tom and Charley,
The weak of will, the strong of arm, the clown, the boozer, the fighter?
All, all are sleeping on the hill.

One passed in a fever,
One was burned in a mine,
One was killed in a brawl,
One died in jail,
One fell from a bridge toiling for children and wife --
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.

Where are Ella, Kate, Mag, Lizzie and Edith,
The tender heart, the simple soul, the loud, the proud, the happy one? --
All, all are sleeping on the hill.

One died in shameful child-birth,
One of a thwarted love,
One at the hands of a brute in a brothel,
One of broken pride, in the search for heart's desire,
One after life in far-away London and Paris
Was brought to her little space by Ella and Kate and Mag --
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.

Where are Uncle Isaac and Aunt Emily,
And old Towny Kinkaid and Sevigne Houghton,
And Major Walker who had talked
With venerable men of the revolution?--
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.

They brought them dead sons from the war,
And daughters whom life had crushed,
And their children fatherless, crying--
All, all are sleeping, sleeping, sleeping on the hill.

Where is Old Fiddler Jones
Who played with life all his ninety years,
Braving the sleet with bared breast,
Drinking, rioting, thinking neither of wife nor kin,
Nor gold, nor love, nor heaven?
Lo! he babbles of the fish-frys of long ago,
Of the horse-races of long ago at Clary's Grove,
Of what Abe Lincoln said
One time in Springfield.


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