Don Quixote (2024) Ink drawing by Maurizio Puglisi "To think that the things of this life must always remain fixed in one point is to think in vain; in fact it seems that life goes in circles, I mean, come and go: spring follows summer, summer follows autumn, autumn follows winter, winter springs, and so time returns to revolve uninterruptedly; only human life runs to its end faster than the wind, without waiting to be renewed, if not in the other which has not boundaries that limit it." Miguel de Cervantes - Don Quixote of La Mancha inks , watercolor, on paper 200 g/m https://www.artfinder.com/products/don-quixote-afe99/
La Ballata dell'amore cieco (o della vanità)
Un uomo onesto, un uomo probo,
tralalalalla tralallaleru
s'innamorò perdutamente
d'una che non lo amava niente.
Gli disse portami domani,
tralalalalla tralallaleru
gli disse portami domani
il cuore di tua madre per i miei cani.
Lui dalla madre andò e l'uccise,
tralalalalla tralallaleru
dal petto il cuore le strappò
e dal suo amore ritornò.
Non era il cuore, non era il cuore,
tralalalalla tralallaleru
non le bastava quell'orrore,
voleva un'altra prova del suo cieco amore.
Gli disse amor se mi vuoi bene,
tralalalalla tralallaleru
gli disse amor se mi vuoi bene,
tagliati dei polsi le quattro vene.
Le vene ai polsi lui si tagliò,
tralalalalla tralallaleru
e come il sangue ne sgorgò,
correndo come un pazzo da lei tornò.
Gli disse lei ridendo forte,
tralalalalla tralallaleru
gli disse lei ridendo forte,
l'ultima tua prova sarà la morte.
E mentre il sangue lento usciva,
e ormai cambiava il suo colore,
la vanità fredda gioiva,
un uomo s'era ucciso per il suo amore.
Fuori soffiava dolce il vento,
tralalalalla tralallaleru
ma lei fu presa da sgomento,
quando lo vide morir contento.
Morir contento e innamorato,
quando a lei niente era restato,
non il suo amore, non il suo bene,
ma solo il sangue secco delle sue vene.
La ballata dell'amore cieco (o della vanità) © 1966 Fabrizio De André
The Ballad of Blind Love (or Vanity)
An honest man, a man of probity
tralalalalla tralallaleru
fell deeply in love
with a woman who loved him not at all.
She told him bring me, tomorrow
tralalalalla tralallaleru
She told him bring me tomorrow
the heart of your mother for my dogs.
He went to his mother’s house and killed her
tralalalalla tralallaleru
from her chest he tore out her heart
and to his love he did return.
It wasn’t the heart, it wasn’t the heart
tralalalalla tralallaleru
It wasn’t enough for her, that horror,
she wanted another proof of his blind love.
She said darling, if you love me
tralalalalla tralallaleru
She said darling, if you love me
cut the four veins of your wrist.
He cut the veins in his wrist
tralalalalla tralallaleru
and as blood gushed out,
running like a madman he returned to her.
She said to him, laughing hard
tralalalalla tralallaleru
She said to him, laughing loud
your final test will be death.
And while his blood slowly drained out
and then his color was changing,
the cold vanity rejoiced,
a man had been killed for his love.
Outside, the wind blew gently
tralalalalla tralallaleru
but she fell into a state of consternation
when she saw him dying, contented.
Dying content and in love,
when for her nothing remained,
not his love, nor his well-being,
just the dried blood of his veins.
English translation © 2014 Dennis Criteser
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