Il disertore [English translation]

In possession of all my mental faculties,

Mr. President,

I’m writing you this letter,

which I hope you’ll read.

The draft notice here

tells me plainly

that I’m to go to war

this coming Monday.

But I’m not here,

Mr. President,

to kill people

more or less like me.

I’m not mad at you

- let me say that in passing -

but I feel that I’ve made up my mind

and that I’m going to desert.

Since I was born,

I’ve had nothing but trouble,

and the children I’ve raised

have cried together with me;

my mum and dad

are six feet under now,

and they won’t give a damn

about war.

When I was being held a prisoner,

somebody stole

my wife and my past,

my best years.

Tomorrow, I’ll get up

and I’ll shut the door

on the dead season,1

and I’ll head off.

I’ll live on handouts

on the streets of Spain,

France and Britain,2

and I’ll shout to everyone

not to leave anymore,

not to follow orders

to go dying

for who cares who.

So, if blood

will be needed at all costs,

go give yours,

if that amuses you.

And you can tell your people,

if they’re going to come look for me,

that they may as well shoot me:

I have no weapons on me.

1. That is, he’ll leave his past behind.2. This could be either Bretagna {Brittany, in northwestern France} or (Gran) Bretagna {(Great) Britain}.