Pitzinnos in sa gherra

Andrea Parodi, Gigi Camedda e Gino Marielli & Fabrizio De André, 1992.

Si ses de mutria mala
morigande in sos pensamentos
lestra de su grecu s’ala
ispinghet ecos de lamentos
brincas sos trabentos
ei bessi dae su ludu
puru si non as a ottènner bantos
proa a dare un’azudu.

No iscurtes sas muidas
lassa puru sas peàdas
sa tritessa commo est luìda
e de realidade aundàda

Arantzos in bucca a sos pitzinnos
a sa muda in sa rena, setzidos
fussiledos in sa pala
pedras in sa bertula
issos cherent una terra
pitzinnos in sa gherra

Su destinu in sos isteddos (falet subra a sos piseddos)
est dromende a bentre a chelu (un’ateru chelu pro lentolu)
brinca sos trabentos
bessi dae su ludu
puru si non as a ottener bantos
proa a dare un’azudu.

Fintzas a cando sa pena
su mundu in sas manos at àere
ischidaticche in bona lena
fortzis gia giuches su chi cheres

Arantzos in bucca a sos pitzinnos
a sa muda in sa rena, setzidos
fusilledos in sa pala
pedras in sa bertula
issos cherent una terra
pitzinnos in sa gherra.

Issos cherent una terra
trenta quaranta cinquanta
mitragliatrice canta
a tenore
tutti seduti giù per terra.

Quaranta cinquanta cinquantuno
ferite di coltello
nel cuore
tutti seduti giù per terra
pitzinnos in sa gherra.

Children in the War

Translated by:

If you are in a bad mood
and brooding in your thoughts
and the swift wing of the Gregale wind
brings echoes of lament
avoid the cliffs,
get out of the mud,
even if you get no credit,
try to give aid.

Don’t listen to the rustle
leave footprints behind.
sadness is now redeemed
and flooded with reality.

Oranges in the mouths of children
Silent on the sand, sitting
with rifles on their shoulders,
stones in their saddlebags,
they want a homeland:
children in the war.

Fate in the stars (descending above the children)
is sleeping belly up
(a different sky for a bedsheet)
avoid the cliffs,
get out of the mud,
even if you get no credit
try to give aid.

As long as sorrow
holds the world in its hands
wake up early
maybe you already have what you want.

Oranges in the mouths of children
In silence in the street, sitting
rifles on their shoulders,
stones in their saddlebags,
they want a homeland:
children in the war.

They want a homeland
thirty forty fifty
a machine gun sings
the tenor
and everyone sitting down on the ground.

Forty fifty fifty one
knife wounds
in the heart
everyone sitting down on the ground
children in the war.