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Iaia

I met a beautiful woman with a heavy heart.
You, a hymn to life - fleeting - and incapable of living;
an ode to joy but it is sad or too many words, a monument to the goodness
abandoned and alone.


I have known a moment, a moment of love,
I deceived her and saw her flowers;
but I can not heal, however, I have the gift of life
and the end will come like everyone, perhaps only the most before.


I met a woman sensitive and capable of love, a political
honest that suffers and loves the challenge
thrown out of everything and attached to a cross,
with dogs that bark and mordon below the fingers.


And fools, hypocrites and customs of wax bold
good only to parade, to lie and without any shame,
that claim to teach you today, but do not have a tomorrow,
who claim to lead people and do not know honor.


So I, I feel that in here, sometimes alone,
with her lying exhausted and unable to leave;
I imagine the day that has seen disappeared
fall on the beautiful Italian cemetery in one day in 'April.


I understand and I wish feed, but refuses my
food, and if he surrounds himself with thieves and whores, it's just to help, but
is a beautiful flower in a world that seems faded,
but in the end it alone and do not knows' more hope.


the Italian mind and you know that 'right to lie, pure and
almost agnostic, but as a gesture of love, has run
embraced Islam at the moon, to bring the pain
Is Somali African Black from my heart.


And then sing you a mountain of stories of war and forced marches,
tell the children - long line of people to go away - hell
Argentina - helicopters sky - blacks as lupare;
her little more than a child and his father, a stamp and stamp.


and return, then the return would be turned into bitter
but in her, ignoring the future, stirred in his heart:
finally home, the meat, the village from which his grandfather had left for
land of the Dacians who do not have a boss.


Where, I wonder, all those who helped this woman
those politicians who led the vote, ideas and dedication,
where his children, loved ones, those who took my hand and it seems incredible but
without any real reason.


Where is his brother who, perhaps, was a lawyer
and, conversely, was cut off before being in bloom?
The mother, who ran after his son too much pain?
And the court jesters of beano their impression.