Who knows for sure if something does really exists Something that is so weary of itself Like a rainy Italian Sunday. Then if the night is coming, and it's November With its twilight that is falling Over this urban dew More and more I regret those vigils around the fireplace...
I had to say to the host: “You're always in time to fly from this country” And he was afraid that I was talking about the dinner. An old-fashioned and honest Italian man, He's just unaware of his own strength And his affection makes me feel so sweetly sorry But his thick wine can always make my heart warm...
To testify the Truth: Now there’s nothing left to be said, I wish I had the courage of my Faith, I'd like to free myself from cowardice From the fear of dying As only the believers can do... But under a desperate sky What drives me to go out now, Still tastes of impiety, And I hope There shall be a new Christianity After my clandestine Dies Irae Because love and compassion Also lie there...
So dear to my heart are the popular jargon, That childish sense of honour The joy, the tragic unconcern; There’s still a feeling, a passion A Nation survives there With a residual and bold sense of belonging; I don't know how long this is going to last, But it's all better than you or I
Perhaps to stretch my look so far I hurt my eyes And I would like a balm, or maybe a child Or some innocence to drink from Like it's done among those young delinquents So handsome and beloved by the Gods. And I pray: Please ferry** my body across the night, Across the city streets' drains Until I reach the peace that Can be allowed by this foolish time that Turned all ancient Gods into a sickness, A fever of my days... You did have your dinner, didn't you? Why are you so formal?