PrincesaFabrizio De André
|La versione inglese di Dennis Criteser |
I am the ewe, I am the cow,
because one wants to play at being animals.
I am the female, open shirt,
small tits to suck.
Under the eyelashes of these trees
in the light and shade where I was born,
because the horizon before the sky,
I was the look in my mother’s eyes.
“Why is little Fernando like a daughter?
He brings me coffee and tapioca in bed,
and to remind him that he was born male
will be instinct, will be life.”
And me, in front of the big mirror -
I screen my eyes with my fingers
to imagine for myself, between my legs,
a little twat.
In the half slumber of a bus
I leave my peasant infancy,
I run to the spell of desires,
I go to adjust my fortune.
In the kitchen of the boarding house
I mix dreams with hormones.
When dawn comes there will be magic,
there will be miraculous breasts.
Because Fernanda is really a daughter,
like a girl she wants to make love.
But little Fernando resists and vomits
and writhes in agony.
And then the scalpel for breasts and hips,
in a whirl of anesthesia,
until my body looks like me
along the seafront of Bahia.
Tender smile of greenleaf,
from her hair I withdraw my fingers
when the cars point their headlights
on the stage of my life
where, amidst traffic jams of desires,
at my buttocks a cock is hanging.
Into my meat, between my lips,
one man slides, the other surrenders.
Because little Fernando died in my bosom,
Fernanda is a silk doll.
They are branches of a single star
that blasts out light, Princess by name.
To a lawyer in Milan
Princess now gives her heart,
and a customary stroll
in the shadow of a balcony.
the nail polish
the fashion model
the elder gentleman