Canzone di notte n°2 [English translation]

Once more, it’s night time and I’m playing,

I don’t know why – I wonder –, maybe because I’m alive

And thus I want to say [that I do] exist,

But maybe [I’m doing so] either because I don’t want to go to bed,

Or because there’s still something to drink,

And I fill my glass.

The echo – it has [just] muffled a bit –

Of the laughters among the friends, of the cheerful cheers

Where everyone hides a burden,

Where everyone is not all by himself – like now,

Wondering "Did I fail? Where did it happen?”

Wondering “What did I do wrong?”

Nevertheless it is nice – during the night –

To wander the streets and the taverns, wine and melancholies,

[While] making two light hearted songs

Through which you – screaming – would like to be taken seriously:

Either for your sadness or your boredom,

Along with all your doubts.

The moralists have closed their bars down,

And moral have coop up your hearts and extinguished your ardours:

It’s good to go back to normal,

Coming back as a part of the herd it’s a piece of cake!

I’m sorry, I do not follow the herd,

I’ll die as a black sheep!

Even if you’ve heard those things before,

Written in a clunky meter – still, it is my own!

But you don’t say these concepts,

But you’re right, thinking is deprecated if you’re not accustomed to,

Then it is good to be a bit suspicious,

If you’re different from the rest.

But now, you’re the rulers,

You have supremacy, the law [from your side] and the Police,

Gods, the commandments and duties.

Unfortunately, I don’t know how, there’s so many of you in front of me

That ignore that untruthful torment

Named “Thought”.

By the way, do not worry,

We are going to get whammied: either in prison or in hospital!

Anarchists have been always beaten,

And libertarians are controlled by both the clergy and the state.

You cannot escape, either you dress up for the parade,

Or you [hide behind] a laugh.

Maybe this is not the [crucial] problem:

Everyone lives inside his egoism dressed ups as sophistries,

Everyone builds up its own environment

Made of irrational grudges, of personal cosmos,

Forgetting that, sooner or later, everyone is going to be

Buried two meters below the ground.

Once more, it’s night time and I’m playing,

I don’t know why – I wonder, maybe because I’m alive

Or to feel less lonely,

Or maybe because strange ghosts and futile dreams inhabit the night

Forming that well-known hypochondria,

But then the bottle is empty.