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Translation
Confessions of a Rascal
I like walking uncombed,
with my head on my shoulders like a lamp;
thus I enjoy brightening up
your featherless Autumn.
I like the thick hail of stones of insult
pouring down on my face,
I grasp myself just to feel alive
in the shell of my head of hair.
And back to my mind comes that pond
that has been swamped by reeds and moss,
and my parents who don’t know that they have
a son who composes verses;
but they love me as much as the fields,
the skin and the seasonal rain.
It will be uncommon for those who offend me
to avert the pitchfork tips.
Poor farmer parents,
surely you have aged and you still fear
the Lord of the heaven and the marshes.
Parents who will never understand
that today your little son has become
the first among the poets of the country,
and now he walks in varnished shoes
and with a top hat on his head.
But inside him still survives the frenzy
of an old countryside scamp,
and at every butcher’s shop sign
the cow bows as his companion.
And when he meets a coachman,
he recalls his shabby Christmas,
and he would like to hold up the tail of the nag
as a wedding train.
I love my homeland
although it is burdened by rusty trunks.
I hold dear the dirty snout of the hogs
and the toads croaking in the shadows.
I’m ill with childhood and memories
and cool April twilights.
It almost looks like the maple tree is bending
to get warmer and then sleep.
I used to climb up to that tree top
to steal the eggs from the nest in it,
but its crown will be always new
and its bark will be tough as before.
And you, my dear friend old dog,
old age has made you feeble and blind,
and you go around the yard with your tail hanging low,
unaware of the doors and the granaries.
I hold dear my thefts as an urchin,
when I would steal a bit of bread from my house,
and we would eat like two brothers,
a crumb for the man and a crumb for the dog.
I haven’t changed:
my heart and my thoughts are the same,
on the magnificent carpet of the verses
I want to tell you something that moves you.
Good night to the moon sickle,
so quiet while the air duskens;
from my window I want to shout
at the circle of the moon.
The night is so clear,
maybe here even dying does not hurt,
what does it matter if my spirit is wicked
and a lantern hangs from my back?
Oh decrepit and good-natured Pegasus,
your gallop is now aimless;
I came like a lone master
and I sing and praise nothing but mice.
From my head, like ripe grapes,
drips the crazy wine of the manes;
I want to be a suit of yellow sails,
swollen towards a land with no name.
- 1. This song was inspired by the poem Confessions of a Hooligan by Russian Sergej Esenin.
http://www.branduardi.info/esenin/branduardi-esenin.htm
Guest on 2015-10-25✕
Angelo Branduardi: Top 3
| 1. | Alla fiera dell'est |
| 2. | La pulce d'acqua |
| 3. | Cogli la prima mela |
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