What am I doing in this church,
I who don’t believe in your Jesus,
with this void that’s weighing on me
now that you’re not there anymore?
How could you be a priest
between communists and Pharisees?
And how far away Mount Amiata is!
Ernesto, you won’t see it again.
God is not there,
I don’t believe in him, you know.
God is not there,
I don’t believe in him and you won’t convince me.
It was a talk we left unfinished
when I lost myself and was no longer myself.
Your church in trouble and the community
was at least something, a small light in the dark.
And now God is not there,
and I need him.
God is not there
and now I’m saying blasphemies as prayers.
The world comes over Florence
just to have a coffee
and among the imbecile indifference
the strong people, like you, die.
Because God is not there,
we're alone down here.
I tell you God is not there,
but your voice doesn't answer me anymore.
I searched for him with all my will,
but faith is only a God’s gift.
I knew, on Sunday you were there,
you were at least something, a small light in the dark.
And now God is not there,
no, he is not there.
But what am I doing in this church,
full of people like you
who still wants to believe in something,
while a desperate silence inside me
is shouting: God is not there.