Amerigo - Francesco Guccini

Probabilmente uscì chiudendo dietro a se la porta verde,

qualcuno si era alzato a preparargli in fretta un caffè d’orzo.

Non so se si girò, non era il tipo d’uomo che si perde

in nostalgie da ricchi, e andò per la sua strada senza sforzo.

Quand’io l’ho conosciuto, o inizio a ricordarlo, era già vecchio

o così a me sembrava, ma allora non andavo ancora a scuola.

Colpiva il cranio raso e un misterioso e strano suo apparecchio,

un cinto d’ernia che sembrava una fondina per la pistola.

Ma quel mattino aveva il viso dei vent’anni senza rughe

e rabbia ed avventura e ancora vaghe idee di socialismo,

parole dure al padre e dietro tradizione di fame e fughe

E per il suo lavoro, quello che schianta e uccide: «il fatalismo».

Ma quel mattino aveva quel sentimento nuovo per casa e madre

e per scacciarlo aveva in corpo il primo vino di una cantina

e già sentiva in faccia l’odore d’olio e mare che fa Le Havre,

e già sentiva in bocca l’odore della polvere della mina.

L’America era allora, per me i G.I.

di Roosvelt, la quinta armata,

l’America era Atlantide, l’America era il cuore, era il destino,

l’America era Life, sorrisi e denti bianchi su patinata,

l’America era il mondo sognante e misterioso di Paperino.

L’America era allora per me provincia dolce, mondo di pace,

perduto paradiso, malinconia sottile, nevrosi lenta,

e Gunga-Din e Ringo, gli eroi di Casablanca e di Fort Apache,

un sogno lungo il suono continuo ed ossessivo che fa il Limentra.

Non so come la vide quando la nave offrì New York vicino,

dei grattacieli il bosco, città di feci e strade, urla, castello

e Pavana un ricordo lasciato tra i castagni dell’Appennino,

l’inglese un suono strano che lo feriva al cuore come un coltello.

E fu lavoro e sangue e fu fatica uguale mattina e sera,

per anni da prigione, di birra e di puttane, di giorni duri,

di negri ed irlandesi, polacchi ed italiani nella miniera,

sudore d’antracite in Pennsylvania, Arkansas, Texas, Missouri.

Tornò come fan molti, due soldi e giovinezza ormai finita,

l’America era un angolo, l’America era un’ombra, nebbia sottile,

l’America era un’ernia, un gioco di quei tanti che fa la vita,

e dire boss per capo e ton per tonnellata, «raif"per fucile.

Quand’io l’ho conosciuto o inizio a ricordarlo era già vecchio,

sprezzante come i giovani, gli scivolavo accanto senza afferrarlo

e non capivo che quell’uomo era il mio volto, era il mio specchio

finché non verrà il tempo in faccia a tutto il mondo per rincontrarlo,

finché non verrà il tempo in faccia a tutto il mondo per rincontrarlo,

finché non verrà il tempo in faccia a tutto il mondo per rincontrarlo…

He probably went out closing the green door behind him,

someone got up to quickly prepare a barley coffee for him.

I don't know if he turned around, he wasn't the kind of man who gets lost

into rich nostalgia, and he went his way effortlessly.

When I met him, or I begin to remember him, he was already old

or so it seemed to me, but then I wasn't going to school yet.

He hit the shaven skull and a mysterious and strange device of his,

a hernia belt that looked like a gun holster.

But that morning he had a face of twenty without wrinkles

and anger and adventure and still vague ideas of socialism,

harsh words to his father and behind the tradition of hunger and flight

And for his work of him, the one that crashes and kills: "fatalism".

But that morning he had that new feeling for home and mother

and to chase it away he had the first wine from a cellar in his body

and he already could smell the smell of oil and sea on his face that makes Le Havre,

and he could already smell the smell of mine dust in his mouth.

America was then, for me the G.I.

of Roosvelt, the fifth army,

America was Atlantis, America was the heart, it was destiny,

America was Life, smiles and white teeth on glossy,

America was Donald’s dreamy and mysterious world.

America was then for me a sweet province, a world of peace,

lost paradise, subtle melancholy, slow neurosis,

and Gunga-Din and Ringo, the heroes of Casablanca and Fort Apache,

a dream along the continuous and obsessive sound that Limentra makes.

I don't know how he saw it when the ship offered New York close,

of skyscrapers the forest, city of feces and streets, screams, castle

and Pavana a memory left among the chestnut trees of the Apennines,

the Englishman a strange sound that hurt his heart like a knife.

And it was work and blood and it was hard work the same morning and evening,

For years of prison, of beer and whores, of hard days,

of blacks and Irish, Poles and Italians in the mine,

anthracite sweat in Pennsylvania, Arkansas, Texas, Missouri.

He returned as a fan many, two sous and youth now gone,

America was a corner, America was a shadow, a thin mist,

America was a hernia, a game of those many that makes life,

and say boss for head and ton for ton, "raif" for shotgun.

When I met him or I start to remember him he was already old,

contemptuous as young people, I slipped by him without grabbing him

and I did not understand that that man was my face, he was my mirror

until the time comes in the face of the whole world to meet him again,

until the time comes in the face of the whole world to meet him again,

until the time comes in the face of the whole world to meet him again ...