Traduzioni

AMERIGO [Amerigo]
Traduzione inglese di Riccardo Venturi

He probably got out closing the green door behind his shoulders,
Someone in the meanwhile had got up to prepare him a barley coffee
I don’t know if he turn’d, he was no man so easily lost in regret
Regret is for the rich, and he went on his way without effort
When I got to know him, my first image was that of an old man
Or he look’d old to me, but at that time I was still a young child
I was struck by his bald head and by a mysterious, strange thing
A truss that made him look like a cop with his gun in the holster
But he did feel that morning something new towards his family home
And not to think of it, he had drunken wine for his first time
Hard words to his father, with hunger and escapes in the background
And as for his work, he was a prey to his ancient fatalism
But he was twenty years old, and there was no wrinkle on his front
But anger and adventure, and some vague ideas of socialism
He already got on his face the oil smell and saltiness of Le Havre
He already got in his mouth the dusty smell of blown up mines.
America was in my thought Roosevelt’s GIs, the Fifth Army,
America was Atlantis, America was my heart and my destiny
America was "Life" with its clean-toothed smiles on glossy paper
America, the phantastic, mysterious dreamland of Donald Duck
At that time I saw America as a blessed nation, a world of peace,
A paradise lost in sharp melancholy, a slow neurosis
And Gunga-Din and Ringo, the heroes of Casablanca and Fort Apache
A dream lull’d by the obsessive and incessant sound of Limentra
I don’t know what he was feeling when New York appeared from the ship
A forest of skyscrapers, a town of shit and streets, cries, a castle!
And Pàvana, only a memory left in chestnut woods of the Appennines
English sounded strange to him and pierced him in the breast like a dagger
And ev’ry day he had to work hard and sweat blood from dawn till sunset
Years and years like in jail, beer, prostitutes, hard days
Irishmen and Negroes, Poles and Italians in the coal mines
Sweat and anthracite in Pennsylvania, Arkansas, Texas, Missouri...
He came back, as many would do, with his nest-egg and his youth lost in vain
America was only a corner, America was only a shadowy haze
America was a hernia, a dirty trick like any that life plays on
And saying "boss" for "capo", and "ton" for "tonnellata", "rifle" for "fucile"
When I got to know him my first image was that of an old man
As any young man does, I used to pass by without stopping and looking
And I couldn’t understand, that man was my own face reflect’d in a mirror
Untill the time will come, that we’ll meet again despite of a’ things
Untill the time will come, that we’ll meet again despite of a’ things
Untill the time will come, that we’ll meet again despite of a’ things!

AMERIGO [Amerigo]
Traduzione spagnola di José Antonio

Probablemente salió, cerrando tras de sí la puerta verde;
alguien se había levantado a prepararle deprisa, un café de cebada.
No sé si se volvió, no era la clase de hombre que se pierde
en nostalgias de ricos, y se alejó por su camino sin esfuerzo.
Cuando lo conocí, o inicio a recordarlo, ya era viejo,
o así me parecía a mí, que ni siquiera aún tenía edad para ir a la escuela;
Llamaba la atención su cabeza rapada y un aparato misterioso y extraño:
un braguero que parecía una funda para la pistola,
pero aquella mañana tenía el rostro de los veinte años, sin una arruga,
y rabia y aventura, y aún vagas ideas de socialismo.
Atrás dejó los duros enfrentamientos con el padre y una tradición de hambre y fugas,
y un fatalismo hacia el trabajo que lo exasperaba hasta la muerte.
Pero aquella mañana tenía un sentimiento nuevo hacia su casa y su madre
y para ahuyentarlo se metió en el cuerpo el primer vino de una bodega,
y ya sentía en su cara el olor de aceite y mar que se respira en Le Havre,
y ya sentía en su boca el olor del polvo de la mina.
Para mí, por aquel entonces, América era los G.I. de Roosevelt, la Quinta armada.
América era la Atlántida, América era el corazón, era el destino;
América era "Life", sonrisas y dientes blancos en papel patinado;
América era el mundo soñado y misterioso del Pato Donald;
América era entonces, para mí, provincia dulce,
mundo de paz, paraíso perdido, sutil melancolía, neurosis lenta,
y Gunga-Din y Ringo, los héroes de Casablanca y de Fort Apache,
un sueño largo como el sonido continuo y obsesivo del Limentra.
No sé que le parecería Nueva York cuando la vio desde el barco que se aproximaba:
bosque de rascacielos, ciudad de excrementos, estrepitosas calles
y Castello y Pàvana, un recuerdo, dejado entre los castaños del Apenino,
el inglés un sonido extraño que lo hería en el corazón como un cuchillo,
y fue trabajo y sangre, y fue fatiga igual mañana y noche,
de negros e irlandeses, polacos e italianos, en la mina
sudor de antracita, en Pensilvania, Arkansas, "Tex", Missouri.
Volvió como muchos, con cuatro duros y la juventud consumida.
América era una esquina, América era una sombra, niebla sutil;
América era una hernia, una broma más de las tantas que nos gasta la vida,
y decir boss por jefe, ton por tonelada, raif por fusil.
Cuando lo conocí, o inicio a recordarlo, ya era viejo;
despreciativo con los jóvenes, yo no lo comprendía pese a su cercanía,
y no comprendía que aquel hombre era mi rostro, era mi espejo,
hasta que no llegue un tiempo en el que todos nos veamos
frente a frente y lo vuelva a encontrar.