Резултати претраге

Care paisane, 23. A thousand years and a thousand more.

A thousand years and a thousand more… What does it mean, “they are dead”?
They’re alive! And this scum is killing them!
Poor ancestors of ours

Care paisane, 22: They are the game of the world.

They are the game of the world!
They are the dignity avoided by the scum
Bacause it can't undestand it, it is above them!
They are the ancien science that does not move
 
Because there is nothing left to be learn:
It knew at birth, an exat science!
Sow and water, wait and you shall receive!...
The land is where two and two is always four!!...
 
Season come, season go... and the Land
With them, it obeys!...
The sun burns? Storms rage?
 
But everything comes to pass, this is the way
of a craft nobody understands
How it has unfolded until now and how it is going to go!...
 

Care paisane, 20. But look around yourselves.

But look around yourselves... On the furrows,
With hoes and spades, bucketts and tools,
All of a sudden came out of the bushes,
Our ancestors... young are and elders,
 
Women are and men... and they are alive!
And they all want
Their interest... it is not for nothing:
Blood does not care, it is right...
 
A thousand years and a thousand more... what do you mean they are dead?
They're always alive! And they don't want to die...
Do you want to force this last offence?...
 
What?... You want lo leave?...
Million of ancestors... looking down at you...
They are out race that cannot end here!...
 

Care paisane, 19. You can see by yourselves.

You can see by yourselves that we are lost:
Landless, we are the land itself
and we ery for having lost it

Care paisane, 18. And it's not your fault.

And it's not your fault... blood is what it is.
You can change everything, but race is race.
Country people since the beginning of times:
Take the land away from him and you'll have a puppet!
 
Gangster, mayors, lawyers,
that's what we are: we love the land!
Migrant.. but not renegade...
Our blood in in Maddaloni, Acerra...
 
That's why we come back: because the land calls!
Because that's where our roots are.
We aren't traitors... we can't
 
sell or trade away this mother...
But don't say Italy, that is scum,
We can't soil us...
 

Care paisane, 16. Hordes of pesonnel composed ol yockels.

Hordes of pesonnel composed ol yockels,
rednecks and country people,
taken away from their land! Millions of them!
The chimney charms you...
 
... and you run and jump... 'The chimney!'
You throw away your spades and hoes,
and you delude yourselves in believing
that is the flag that will raise you from hardship and hunger!
 
Instead, in the shadow of this scum, the land
dies, choked by pollution and smoke

Care paisane, 17. The chimney! And you, for a salary.

The chimney! And you, for a salary
betray your land, your race...
Baptism just an occasion to wash your head,
not even beasts: puppets is what you are!
 
You are puppets... Numbers! Idiots!
By the press, the forge, the mintage, the ovens,
Dear Francesco do you know? You are slaves,
for twenty thousands lire a day...
 
And you are not able to hammer!
You can't use a wrench!
These are not your skills! And 'Hey what is a casting?
 
Do you wash concrete? And what is a cutter?'.
And then you fake inness:
'Absent!' we'll talk about it at the end of the month...
 

Care paisane, 15: We are flesh of your flesh.

We are flesh of your flesh
And the same blood flows through our veins:
But we have our own flag!
You do not even own land!
 
Rome expropriates yours to create:
It comes to your aid in its own way: they evict you...
They snatch you away from your land, they take it by force,
Build factories, and then it is done!
 
Hunger? Poverty?... this scum of Rome
Shuts your mouth in an istant:
It says: 'I'll solve everything!'... and you know how...
 
I told you there in the factory!...
It does more harm than a million bombs...
But who goes to Rome to tell them?...
 

Care paisane, 14. Yockels like you we are.

Yockels like you we are!
But not Italians! No! We do not feel that way!
Because we were the real Italians,
and then Italy was just scum
 
that charged straight at us
and yelled at us 'Brigand!' and shot
at us and stabbed us in the stomach,
fired cannons and charged us with the bayonette...
 
Not Italians! When the time came
and millions of people came to the harbour,
the Italians put a white flag out...
 
They wished us ill fate: bringers of bad luck!
You may achieve everything: but none of them
wrote: Italians! You are killing the dead!
 

13. Ancient like the roots of these plants.

Ancient like the roots of these plants,
We are rooted, we are country people…
We watered this land crying:
Sweat, blood and tears made these furrows!
 
Broken backs and corns on our hands,
We are hunger and suffering…
“Pick fruit and sow the wheat!”
Life and death in the face of the highborn!
 
But we chose to leave, beaten
Spat in the face by this old scum
Which has rooted for centuries in Rome
 
And that feeds on the trouble and the blood
Of those who work and uses the whip
On those who expose their dirty business and plots…
 

We’re back… and you dear fellow villagers.

We’re back… and you dear fellow villagers,
you celebrate that flag of yours:
What are we suppposed to do? We clap

Slaughtered for being cursed. brigand

Slaughtered for being cursed brigands,
smothered by new italian taxes,
burdened by debt, coscripted as soldiers,
Squares empty and bell muted
 
We found the strenght to yell: enough!
These are the Italians: shit!
The masters said I will do, I will say,
But in the end we starved!...
 
Lice-ridden rags in a rag:
Let’s disturb this worthless scum no further!
It is us who always suffered!
 
And let’s leave those who keep this sky always dark!
We took what we had and farewell beautiful Naples!
We left for the sea… foam we were…
 

You look for something full

You look for something full yet you find two of them empty!
You keep counting but nothing adds up.
Are we Italian?... And… “No, you are brigands!
You aren’t worth rotten meat!...
 
So, die!” And wealways obeyed…
The land belongs to those who work it... Ah, such bullshit!
Italian unity!... and we died as usual…
White, red and green.. what a great deal for us!
 
Tuscanian or not, these are like those others
and those just like the one’s before, just the same…
Godless, thieves and mobsters.
 
Always they: masters and masters’ lackeys…
While we choked, poor souls
Always us, always here! Always animals!..
 

Bent over the fields.

Bent over the fields,
We were working and bleeding as usual
When an asshole speaking in Tuscanian said
“ Hey yokel! The times have changed…
 
Now Garibaldi is going to come and will free you…
He’ll take the land from the hands of your masters!”
And then, hoes, wine-press and spades…
We also became swolled head!
 
But the history of yokels and of the lowest of the low,
stayed, no need to mentions, the same:
Tuscanian or not, we did not start to melt grease
 
The truth is that Garibaldi did not keep his word…
The sun was shining but we got soaked!
The wind was blowing, and we shook like banners!
 

From the dog’s mouth, in ome bite, we ended up in the wolf’s!

From the dog’s mouth, in ome bite, we ended up in the wolf’s!
What a great deal white, red and green…
We asked for help and we got a kick in the head…
From the mud we in a splash we ended up in shit!...
 
We spoke and – No you’re wrong!
Brigand! – and then the ceremonies began…
What, you are going to kill us? We are already dead…
“Shut up, brigand!...” And they jumped at us.
 
Brothers… and hey attacked us:
“Shut up brigand…” and they bit us hard!
The Unity of Italy… what a basket we received as a gift…
 
They burns us alive in haystacks!
They robbed holy shrines!
They made martyrs of us, in the thousands!
 

Kings, dukes, princes, marquises

Kings, dukes, princes, marquises
Lead a million wars!
We? Never won one! We were those who died!
On these furrows, here, lying on the ground!
 
The Greeks, the Romans, barbarian and goths,
The Turks, the Geman and the French: all of them!
A thousand banners, one at a time

The wheel of the universe.

The wheel of the universe spun and spun
Just for kings, priests and barons

Soaked in sunlight like sponges.

Soaked in sunlight like sponges
With the frost howling like banners
With fingernails we work this soil
With blood-shot eyes and chained feet!
 
Ancient like the roots of these plants
We are here rooted: we are country people!
We water this land crying:
Sweat, blood, tears make these furrows.
 
We are country people: yes, hunger,
Broken backs and corns on our hands.
“Mow! Work! Animal!” –we obey!...
 
“Pick this fruit and harvest the weat!”
Life and death in front of highborn people
For three beans and a loaf of bread…