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The 20th century

Some say those skies are suitable
for horses and that roads
are made of soundstage dust.
Some say that inside the houses, pale-faced women
with their old Singer machines sew
light gingham coats
clothes that billow in the wind
and everything else is just rubbish,
old stuff for Chinese people, eh, eh.
 
Some say that old little tune
from the 19th century makes
some old dolls smile in a sweet dream
all of them, pierced by an Indian arrow,
memories of the previous century,
stuff from a distant era,
an era [they] glimpsed in the white flash
of a magnesium flare
over the crazy red of manganese, eh eh.
 
The silence was indigo, and so was the Great Spirit
that slowed the onset of frost
and shooed crows away from the hill.
Like an old cook in a kitchen,
scolding the ghosts of gourmands
in a slow, sing-song way.
Nevermind, just leave it, don't bother,
we don't know where we were
that morning that was worth seeing, eh eh.
 
Where were we that morning
when the 20th century was running
the great race of moccasins...
Up there, on the pleistocene stage
on the prehistoric plateau
volcanic, then galvanic...
Some say it's all vanilla,
a great battle,
a big wonder, eh, eh.
 
The galvanized wind was opening
all garages and freeing
some big, thrilling engines.
Yellow straw was fluttering in the air,
higher than the realm of eagles,
where airplanes shine...
The airplane was shining like the eyes
of stray boys who
were looking at it from the branches of cherry trees, eh eh.
 

Very far away

Far, far away, beyond Milan
beyond gasometers, beyond manometers
beyond kilometers and tram tracks
far, far away, very far away,
beyond running water and electricity,
there I want to surrender myself into the arms of music
that ends the conversation about affinities.
Strong farter, written by the devil,
in obvious defiance of civilization.
 
Maybe you won't love me
you'll meet me, smile at me
but you won't love me.
 
Maybe you won't love me
you'll listen to me, follow me
but you won't love me.
 
The moon, the moon of howls
leaves classicism to poets.
There I want to surrender myself into the arms of music
that ends the conversation about urbanity.
Strong farter, written by the devil,
in solemn defiance of humanity.
 
Maybe you won't love me
you'll talk to me, embrace me
but you won't love me.
 

The Stradella accordeon

What is the Po Valley1
after six
a fog that makes you feel like
you are in a glass
of water and anise liquor, eh.
 
I heard it on the radio and it's true
it's past 1 PM and in this car
I feel I'm alone
because you aren't talking to me.
 
The road is grey and the light is grey
and Broni, Casteggio and Voghera2
are grey too.
There's only a red traffic light up there.
 
In the heart, in the heart of Stradella3,
the town where every
accordeon4 of this plain
was born and someone plays them this way,
 
the engine is idling and I hear
that sound in the air.
I watch you sleep
you look different
very different, I know.
 
With the sweet sound
of the Stradella accordeon
you look even more beautiful
than you are.
 
And I like
driving you around
in the night
all night
tonight, this way
and always this way.
 

• 1. the largest plain in Italy:
• 2. towns in the Po Valley near Pavia
• 3. another town near Pavia, which was once famous for the production of accordeons. It now hosts a museum dedicated to accordeons which was inaugurated by the author of this song.
• 4. here, 'armonica' may be a shortened form of 'fisarmonica' (accordeon) or alterantively it may refer to harmonics as properties of sound waves (see: )

Jam-moon

A long journey, and a boring one too
we have arrived, tired,
our bags are heavy
and our clothes are creased.
Thank goodness we got here,
in a well-lit hotel
there's a room for us,
for us, who have traveled so much.
 
I know everything around here by now
and I know the cold feeling of this key in my hand.
 
And you are getting ready to inhabit
this room as if it was
a house and I wait
while you put in the drawers
your clothes and mine too.
Outside the window
there's a sensational moon
that watches us with sadness.
 
A jam-moon1 for the two of us
we have a house and kids, both of us,
but we smiled shamelessly
at the prospect of one last love.
 

• 1. a pun on honeymoon