Paroles et traduction Roberto Vecchioni - I Poeti

I Poeti

I poeti son giovani e belli
E portano in cuore la luce del sole e un canto d'uccelli
E la strada del borgo natio
La pioggia sui tetti, la povera gente amata da Dio
Poesia, poesia
Deh, proteggimi ovunque io sia
Poesia, poesia
I poeti son vecchi signori che mangian le stelle
Distesi sui prati delle loro ville
E s'inventano zingare more
Per farsi credibili agli occhi del mondo col loro dolore
Poesia, poesia, poesia, poesia
I poeti si fanno le pippe coi loro ricordi
La casa, la mamma, le cose che perdi
E poi strisciano sui congiuntivi
Se fossi, se avessi, se avessi e se fossi, se fossimo vivi
Poesia, poesia
Deh, proteggimi ovunque io sia
Poesia, poesia
I poeti hanno visto la guerra con gli occhi degli altri
Che tanto per vivere han perso la pelle
Così, scrivon piangendo cipolle
Su barbe profetiche intinte nel vino che pure gli serve
Poesia, poesia, poesia, poesia
I poeti son liberi servi di re e cardinali
Che van ripetendo "Noi siam tutti uguali"
E si tingono di rosso vivo
Ciascuno pensando "Il giorno del Nobel farò l'antidivo"
Poesia, poesia
Deh, proteggimi ovunque io sia
Poesia, poesia
I poeti son litri di vino bevuti per noia
Per scriver parole davanti al mattino
Mentre sognano bambine nude che uscendo da scuola
Li prendon per mano e gli danno la viola
Poesia, poesia, poesia, poesia
I poeti son giovani stanchi che servon lo Stato
Sputandogli in faccia perché sia dannato
E sbandierano cieli e fontane, messaggi e colombe
A noi le campane, ai ricchi le trombe
Poesia, poesia, poesia, poesia
Poesia, poesia, poesia, poesia
Poesia, poesia, poesia, poesia
Poesia, poesia, poesia, poesia
Poesia, poesia, poesia, poesia
Poesia, poesia, poesia, poesia
Poesia, poesia, poesia, poesia
Poesia, poesia, poesia, poesia

Poets

Poets are young and beautiful
And they carry in their heart the sunlight and a bird's song
And the road of their hometown
The rain on the roofs, the poor people loved by God
Poetry, poetry
Oh, protect me wherever I am
Poetry, poetry
Poets are old gentlemen who eat stars
Lying on the lawns of their villas
And they invent dark gypsy women
To make themselves credible in the eyes of the world with their pain
Poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry
Poets smoke their pipes with their memories
Home, mother, the things you lose
And then they crawl on the subjunctives
If I were, if I had, if I had and if I were, if we were alive
Poetry, poetry
Oh, protect me wherever I am
Poetry, poetry
Poets have seen war with the eyes of others
Who have lost their skin just to live
So, they write weeping onions
On prophetic beards dipped in wine, which also serves them
Poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry
Poets are free servants of kings and cardinals
Who go around repeating, "We are all equal"
And they dye themselves bright red
Each thinking, "On the day of the Nobel Prize I'll be the anti-star"
Poetry, poetry
Oh, protect me wherever I am
Poetry, poetry
Poets are liters of wine drunk out of boredom
To write words before morning
While they dream of naked schoolgirls
Who take them by the hand and give them the viola
Poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry
Poets are young, tired men who serve the State
Spitting in its face so that it may be damned
And they parade skies and fountains, messages and doves
For us the bells, for the rich the trumpets
Poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry
Poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry
Poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry
Poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry
Poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry
Poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry
Poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry
Poetry, poetry, poetry, poetry