By dint of being the wind

Eventually, Italy has achieved the national pacification. No more political hates, but a sound competition, democratic confrontation of different positions.
The opposition’s leader phones up the majority’s leader to tell him “congratulation, you won”; the majority’s leader phones up the opposition’s leader… Finally, we have done with demonizing the rival. And if a journalist dares reminding the relationships with mafia bosses of the President of the Senate, the scandal is that the journalist is reminding those things, not that the President of the Senate used to go arm in arm with gangsters. In this new peaceful country, the defense for the President of the Senate comes from the opposition, even before than the majority: this really is a civil country!

Naples is another high expression of civility. A city swamped with garbage, left to her fate by a corrupt and/or ineffective political class, plagued by the violence of the Camorra. A city that finally rebel against all this and revolt throwing stones and Molotov against Gypsies camps.

 

 

KHORAKHANE (By dint of being the wind)
by Fabrizio De Andre’ (translation by Jacopo “Laverdure” - Usenet Newsgroup it.fan.musica.de-andre)

The hearbeats slow down, the head walks on
in that poddle of piss and concrete
in that field blown by the wind
by dint of being the wind

I bear the name of all baptisms
each name the seal of a pass
for a ford, a country, a cloud, a song
a diamond hidden in bread
but for one humour in blood so sweet
for the same reason to travel, travelling

The heartbeats slow down, the head walks on
in the dark of forlorn swings
some gypsies stopped and became Italian
like copper hung to get brown on a wall
Being able to read the book of the world
with everchanging words and no writing
on the narrow paths in the palm of a hand
those frightening secrets
until a man meets you and won’t know himself anymore
and every country lights up and peace surrenders

Sons would fall from the calendar
Yugoslavia, Poland, Hungary
soldiers would take them all
and all they threw away

And then Mirka at St. Georges in May *
between the flowers flames, with laughs and drinks
a relief in tears flooding the eyes
and from the eyes falling down

Now rise you childbrides
the time has come to go
blue veins on your wrists
another day for begging

And if this means stealing
a scanty bread out of poverty and misfortunes
on the mirror of this kampina **
to my eyes, clear as a farewell
that can only tell who’s got in his mouth
God’s point of view

Čvava sero po tute
i kerava
jek sano ot mori
i taha jek jak kon kašta
vašu ti baro nebo
avi ker.

kon ovla so mutavla
kon ovla
ovla kon aščovi
me ğava palan ladi
me ğava
palan bura ot croiuti.

[I'll lay my head on your shoulder
and I will
dream of the sea
and tomorrow a wood fire
so that the light blue air
become home

Who'll be there to tell
who'll be
it'll be who stays on
I'll follow this migration
I'll follow
this wings stream]

* Gypsies’ holiday, on the 6th of May
** kampina: mobile tent