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fabrizio de andré - la guerra di piero - english traslation كلمات الأغنية

lying down buried in a field of rye
‘t’s neither the rose’s nor the tulip’s eye
watching your sleep in the ditches’ ol’ bed
but it’s a thousand red poppies instead

“down by the banks of the stream in my town
i want the silvery pikes to swim down
no more the corpses of soldiers laid low
carried along by the slithering flow”

that’s what you said during winter’s cold kiss
and like the others straight toward the abyss
sadly you go forth like someone who must
wind’s spitting snow in your face with a gust

pete you should stop now, stop right away
let the wind blow on your skin while you may
let it relay you the voice of the dead
who gave his life got a cross back instead

you did not hear it though time just went by
along with the seasons you’d march in a line
till you arrived at the border gateway
it was a pleasant and sunny spring day

while you were marching your soul on your back
y’spotted a man in the valley’s dark crack
inside he was feeling exactly like you
except that his uniform differed in hue

shoot him now pete with the shotgun you bore
fire one shot and then keep shooting more
till you will see him drop down in the mud
flat on the ground on top of his blood

“now if i aim at his heart or his head
i’ll leave him time just to see that he’s dead
but i’ll have time to look down where he lies
see for the first time a dying man’s eyes”

while you reflect on a kind way to k!ll
the other one sees you and turns in a chill
taken his gun he gets ready to fight
pulls on the trigger, not quite as polite

y’dropped on the pavement without a moan
and understood in a moment alone
you would not have enough time to pray for
god to forgive all the sins that you bore

y’dropped on the pavement without a moan
and understood in a moment alone
that your own life was to end on that day
and that this journey was only one-way

“my little janet it’s over today
don’t have the guts to be dying in may
my little janet, descending to h-ll
would have been better in winter’s cold spell”

and while the rye would its ears to you lend
‘gainst your own shotgun your arms you would bend
‘gainst your own t–th came out words of defeat
far too ice-cold to dissolve in the heat

lying down buried in a field of rye
‘t’s neither the rose’s nor the tulip’s eye
watching your sleep in the ditches’ ol’ bed
but it’s a thousand red poppies instead

- fabrizio de andre

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