Nei giardini che nessuno sa

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Nei giardini che nessuno sa

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In The Garden That Nobody Knows
You feel that rough skin.
A great cold within the soul
Makes it difficult for even a tear
To fall down

Too many waits around (lit: behind) the corner.
Joys that do not belong to you.
This irreconcilable time
Plays against you

Here is how it ends then.
Glued (lit: nailed) to a window we
Melancholic spectators
Of impossible happiness

Many trips postponed and already
Empty suitcases from an eternity.
That pain that you do not know what it is
Only [that] it will never leave you, oh never!

That malaise is a refuge.
Too much haste in your growing old.
Miracles are not made anymore
Now, not anymore now.

Not paying attention to those dolls.
Not touching those pills.
That nun has a beautiful character.
She knows what to do with souls.

I would give you my eyes
In order to see that which you do not see.
The energy, the joy
In order to elicit smiles from you again

To say to you “Yes”, always “Yes”
And to succeed in making you fly
Wherever you want, wherever you know
Without that weight on your heart anymore

To hide the clouds from you
And that winter that makes you ill.
To heal your wounds and then
Some more teeth in order to eat

And then to see you laughing.
And then to see you running again.
Neglectful is the one who carelessly
Forgets a flower one Sunday

And then silence (lit: silences)…
And then silence

In the garden that nobody knows
The futility exudes.
There is respect and great cleanliness.
It is almost craziness

You do not know how beautiful it is to hug you
To meet each other here to protect you
And to dress you and to comb your hair, yes
And to whisper to you not to give up

In the garden that nobody knows.
How much life plods through here?
Only minor ailments, anaemias.
We are nothing without fantasies

Hold them, help them.
I beg you not to allow them to fall.
Fragile exiles.
Do not deny them a little of your love

Stars that now keep silent
But will give feeling to that sky.
Men do not shine
If they are not also stars themselves

Hands that now tremble
Because the wind blows stronger.
Do not let them now, no
That death does not catch them unawares

We are the artless
In that though having, sometimes we do not give.
Neglectful is the one who carelessly
Forgets a flower one Sunday

And then silence…
And then silence…

Postat de Guest la Vineri, 01/01/2010 - 00:00

Nei giardini che nessuno sa

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