• You lie slain, in a cornfield sleeping,
    and neither the rose or the ladytulip
    are watching you in the shadow of ditches,
    but thousands of blood-red poppies.

    "Along the banks of this country stream
    I'd like to spy the silver pike swimming,
    and not a suite of soldiers' corpses
    brought with the stream, like dead branches."

    You said so, and it was a cold winter,
    and, just like others, you're bound to hell
    marching so sadly to your sad duty,
    the wind's spitting snow in your face.

    Stop your steps, Peter, stop your steps now!
    Allow the wind to fondle your body,
    you bear the voice of all the fallen
    who gave their lives for a wooden cross.

    But you didn't hear them, and time passed by
    with the seasons at a java step
    and so you were ready to cross the border
    in a warm and bright spring day.

    And walking on shouldering your soul
    you noticed a man down there in the valley
    walking in the same sad mood as you
    but with a uniform of a different colour.

    Shoot him, Peter, shoot at him now!
    Shoot again to make sure he's dead,
    until he falls dead to the ground
    and covers his own blood deadly wounded.

    "And if I aim at his front or at his heart
    I'll leave him only the time to die,
    but I shall have plenty of time
    to look in the eyes of a dying man."

    And while you are so kind to him,
    he turns around, sees you and gets frighten'd;
    he brings his rifle to firing position
    and doesn't repay you for your favour.

    You fell to the ground without even a cry
    and you noticed in no less than a moment
    that you'd not have enough time
    to beg pardon for all your sins.

    You fell to the ground without even a cry
    and you noticed in no less than a moment
    that your life had be put an end,
    and that you'd never come back home.

    "Oh Jenny darling, to die in May
    one needs much and maybe too much courage.
    Oh Jenny darling, I'd like best
    to go to hell in a cold winter day."

    And while the corn was listening to your words
    you held your rifle clenched in your hands,
    you held your words frozen in your mouth
    that would never have melt in the sunrays.

    You lie slain, in a cornfield sleeping,
    and neither the rose or the ladytulip
    are watching you in the shadow of ditches,
    but thousands of blood-red poppies.


    [traduzione di Riccardo Venturi]




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