 | Questa opera è distribuita con licenza Creative Commons Attribuzione - Non commerciale 3.0 Unported. This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License. |
Oh little, little bird,
which, in the light of dawn,
begin with all your weird
voice to wake up the town...
I was so quietly imbued
into my favourite dreams
when your bad song intruded
loud like a thousand screams
destroying suddenly
the peace in which I was,
unmercifully, unpitifully,
as fast as thunder goes!
Therefore I must inquire
with all the reasons I keep:
why like a sudden fire
from my deserved sleep
you took me off instead
of leaving me in my dreams?
I was into my bed
into the oneiric beams,
was visiting that country
maybe which doesn't exist,
with doors without a sentry,
with boxers without fist,
those undiscovered lands
in which the stars are black,
in which the movement stands,
and indians eat beef steak...
And you made me wake up...
Not only you but, too,
your children don't shut up
and shout... Orrible woe!
I wonder: why you sing?
what are you, with your voice,
declaring to the ring
of rising sun, with noise?
You are happy: a new day
begins, but may well be
the day in which you'll die
with all your melody!
The life is not so long
and may be cruel and vain:
of you and of your song
not very much will remain...
Do you want to sing in heaven?
I can make you content!
From your neck, your sick and shaven
skull very far will be sent.
I have a lot of guns
but with my very hand
to you and to your sons
I will make find the end!
And I will say (with lore),
but only a simple thing:
the hours of dawn no more
choose as a time to sing!
Questa opera è distribuita con licenza Creative Commons Attribuzione - Non commerciale 3.0 Unported.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.
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