the italian song

Probabilmente uscì
chiudendo dietro a sé la porta verde,
qualcuno si era alzato
a preparargli in fretta un caffè d’ orzo.

Non so se si girò,
non era il tipo d’ uomo che si perde
in nostalgie da ricchi,
e andò per la sua strada senza sforzo.

Quand’io l’ho conosciuto,
o inizio a ricordarlo, era già vecchio
o così a me sembrava,
ma allora non andavo ancora a scuola.

Colpiva il cranio raso
e un misterioso e strano suo apparecchio,
un cinto d’ernia che
sembrava una fondina per la pistola.

Ma quel mattino aveva
il viso dei vent’anni senza rughe
e rabbia ed avventura
e ancora vaghe idee di socialismo,

parole dure al padre
e dietro tradizione di fame e fughe
e per il suo lavoro,
quello che schianta e uccide: “il fatalismo”.

Ma quel mattino aveva
quel sentimento nuovo per casa e madre
e per scacciarlo aveva
in corpo il primo vino di una cantina
e già sentiva in faccia
l’ odore d’ olio e mare che fa Le Havre,
e già sentiva in bocca
l’ odore della polvere della mina.

L’ America era allora,
per me i G.I. di Roosvelt, la quinta armata,
l’America era Atlantide,
l’America era il cuore, era il destino,
l’America era Life,
sorrisi e denti bianchi su patinata,
l’America era il mondo
sognante e misterioso di Paperino.

L’ America era allora
per me provincia dolce, mondo di pace,
perduto paradiso,
malinconia sottile, nevrosi lenta,
e Gunga-Din e Ringo,
gli eroi di Casablanca e di Fort Apache,
un sogno lungo il suono
continuo ed ossessivo che fa il Limentra.

Non so come la vide
quando la nave offrì New York vicino,
dei grattacieli il bosco,
città di feci e strade, urla, castello
e Pavana un ricordo
lasciato tra i castagni dell’Appennino,
l’inglese un suono strano
che lo feriva al cuore come un coltello.

E fu lavoro e sangue
e fu fatica uguale mattina e sera,
per anni da prigione,
di birra e di puttane, di giorni duri,
di negri ed irlandesi,
polacchi ed italiani nella miniera,
sudore d’antracite
in Pennsylvania, Arkansas, Texas, Missouri.

Tornò come fan molti,
due soldi e giovinezza ormai finita,
l’America era un angolo,
l’America era un’ ombra, nebbia sottile,
l’America era un’ ernia,
un gioco di quei tanti che fa la vita,
e dire boss per capo
e ton per tonnellata, “raif” per fucile.

Quand’io l’ ho conosciuto
o inizio a ricordarlo era già vecchio,
sprezzante come i giovani,
gli scivolavo accanto senza afferrarlo
e non capivo che
quell’uomo era il mio volto, era il mio specchio
finché non verrà il tempo
in faccia a tutto il mondo per rincontrarlo,
finché non verrà il tempo
in faccia a tutto il mondo per rincontrarlo,
finché non verrà il tempo
in faccia a tutto il mondo per rincontrarlo…

He probably stepped out
pulling the green door behind him,
someone had already gotten up
to make him a quick barley coffee.

I don’t know if he turned around,
he was not the kind of man to get lost
in rich people’s nostalgia,
he went his way effortlessly.

When I met him,
or that’s how I remember him, he was already old
or so it seemed to me,
but I was not yet school age then.

What was peculiar in him was his shaved head
and a mysterious and strange device
a hernia belt
that looked like a gun holster.

But that morning he had
the face of his twenty years without wrinkles
and anger and adventure
and still vague ideas of socialism,

he left behind his father with harsh words,
and a past of hunger as a runaway,
and he had what can annihilate
and kill you in a job like his: fatalism.

But that morning he had
a new feeling for his home and mother,
and to drive it away he had
the wine from the first cellar
and he could smell in his face
the smack of oil and sea that recalls Le Havre,
and already he tasted
in his mouth the dust of the mine.

Back then, America for me
meant Roosvelt’s G.I.’s, the Fifth Army,
America was Atlantis,
America was the heart, it was destiny,
America was Life,
smiles and white teeth on glossy paper,
America was the dreamy
and mysterious world of Donald Duck.

America for me was
a sweet province, a world of peace,
a lost paradise,
subtle melancholy, slow neurosis,
and Gunga-Din and Ringo,
the heroes of Casablanca and Fort Apache,
a dream along the continuous and obsessive sound
of the Limentra river.

I don’t know how he saw it
when the ship showed him New York so near,
the forest of skyscrapers
the city of feces and streets, screams, castle
and Pavana was a memory
left behind in the chestnut trees of the Apennines,
English was a strange sound
that pierced his heart like a knife.

And it was work and blood
and it was equal toil, morning and night,
for years like in prison,
of beer and whores, of hard days,
of Negroes and Irish,
Poles and Italians in the mine,
anthracite sweat
in Pennsylvania, Arkansas, Texas, Missouri.

He came back as many do,
with a little money, but his youth was gone,
America was a corner,
America was a shadow, thin mist,
America was a hernia,
a trick like many that life plays,
and say “boss” for capo
and “ton” for tonnellata, “rifle” for fucile.

When I knew him
or begin to remember him he was already old,
scornful as young folks,
I slipped by him without grasping him
and didn’t understand that
the man had my very face, he was my mirror
until time comes
in the face of all the world to meet him again,
until time comes
in the face of all the world to meet him again,
until time comes
in the face of all the world to meet him again.