La guerra di Piero [English translation]

The war of Peter

sleep burried in a field of wheat

it's not the rose it's not the tulip

that are doing tha wake from the shadow of the deep ditches

but there are a thousand of red puppies

along the side of my torrent

I want that the silver coated lights come down

not the corpses of the soldiers anymore

brought in the arms of the current

you were saying that and it was winter

and like others towards hell

you go, sad like someone that has to

the wind spits on your face snow

stop Piero, stop now

let the wind pass a little bit over you

you bring the voice of the dead in the battle

who gave life got in return the cross

but you didn't here that and the time was going by

with the seasons with step of .... (something no quite right here)

and you arrived to cross the borders (could also mean metaphorically frontier)

in a beautiful day of spring

and as you were marching with the soul on your shoulders

you saw a man down the valley

that had your identical mood

but the uniform of another colour

shoot at him Piero, shoot at him now

and after one shot go on shooting him

until you don't see him with anymore blood

fall down on earth to hide his blood

and if I shhot him on the forehead or the heart

only time will be needed for him to die

but I will have time to see

see the eyes of a dying man

and as you are using this kindness

he turns around, sees you and is afraid

and as he embraxes the artillery

he is not as polite as you were

you would drop on the floor without a sigh

and you would understand in only one moment

that time wouldn't be enough for you

to ask forgiveness for every sin of yours

you would drop on the floor without a sigh

and you would understand in only one moment

that your life was ending that day

and there would be no come back

my Ninetta die on May

wants much too much courage

Beautiful Ninetta straight to hell

I would have prefered to go during winter

and as the wheat was standing by to hear you

inside your hands you were holding a rifle

inside your mouth you were holding words

way off frozen to be melted under the sun

sleep burried in a field of wheat

it's not the rose it's not the tulip

that are doing tha wake from the shadow of the deep ditches

but there are a thousand of red puppies