Il pastore [English translation]

A head of greying hair, bent on a stick

he is the shepheard of all times, on the way to the mountain

he won't go back, no, not go back

the poor low houses, injustice there, the slow rhythm of the voices,

close the smells and odours, balsamic fragrances,

left behind untold misery, behind are death and war

behind the myth of the earth, behind the myth of the earth

and thus arrive up there where the silence is fabulous

to set the soul free, to liberate the soul,

far away the island, voices, screams, to get rid of the roots

and carry on walking ahead in big long strides

dark are the woods in front of me and no more reconsiderations

leave all that behind to start anew

then sit down on a rock and think anew of your existence

far away the suffering now far away all overbearing

and arrive up there where the silence is fabulous

and free the soul, free the soul, free the soul.