Prophets

Some people have indeed the gift of prophecy. I ignore when Fabrizio De Andre’ wrote the following words, but they could as well have been written yesterday:

“Si lamentano degli zingari? Guardateli come vanno in giro a supplicare l’elemosina di un voto: ma non ci vanno a piedi, hanno autobus che sembrano astronavi, treni, aerei: e guardateli quando si fermano a pranzo o a cena: sanno mangiare con coltello e forchetta, e con coltello e forchetta si mangeranno i vostri risparmi.

L’Italia appartiene a cento uomini, siamo sicuri che questi cento uomini appartengano all’Italia?”

I’ll try to translate for English readers:

“Do they complain about gypsies? Look how they go around begging for a vote: but they don’t walk, they have buses that look like spaceships, trains, planes: and look at them, when they stop for lunch or dinner: they know how to eat with fork and knife, and with fork and knife they’ll eat your savings.

Italy belong to a hundred men, are we sure these hundred belong to Italy?”

Sadly, prophets are getting scarce in our times.

3 Responses to “Prophets”

  1. i figli cadevano dal calendario
    Yugoslavia Polonia Ungheria
    i soldati prendevano tutti
    e tutti buttavano via

    e poi Mirka a San Giorgio di maggio
    tra le fiamme dei fiori a ridere a bere
    e un sollievo di lacrime a invadere gli occhi
    e dagli occhi cadere

    ora alzatevi spose bambine
    che è venuto il tempo di andare
    con le vene celesti dei polsi
    anche oggi si va a caritare

    e se questo vuol dire rubare
    questo filo di pane tra miseria e sfortuna
    allo specchio di questa kampina
    ai miei occhi limpidi come un addio

    lo può dire soltanto chi sa di raccogliere in bocca
    il punto di vista di Dio …

    khorakhanè

  2. Roberto Says:

    Grazie klochov, citazione perfetta, come al solito.

    For anglophones, a translation I’ve found on the web,
    though I fear it doesn’t recapture the magic of the original:

    Sons would fall from the calendar
    Yugoslavia, Poland, Hungary
    soldiers would take them all
    and all they threw away

    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

    Now rise you childbrides
    the time has come to go
    blue veins on your wrists
    another day for begging

    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

  3. Somehow i missed the point. Probably lost in translation🙂 Anyway … nice blog to visit.

    cheers, Gunsel!

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