Argentina - Paolo Conte

È tutto grande in Argentina, malinconia

Ne abbiam frustate scarpe a Buenos Aires

Il cielo riservato agli emigranti

È bianco e sembra

Sempre di mattina

Ma è meglio non pensarci più

Che poi arriva il pomeriggio

Le luci gialle

Che tutti fan baccano

Giù ne porto

E i bastimenti gridano

— Partiamo-

Davanti a un mare enorme americano

Che sciacqua un sogno

Vecchio ormai

Argentina, Argentina, Argentina

Suona una banda in Argentina, sotto la luna

La prima notte mi ricordo ancora

Una donna india con la faccia bruna

Ci guarda e te lo giuro

Mai nessuna

Fu tanto amata come lei

Amata dai nostri occhi stanchi

E dal silenzio con cui fu riverita

Oh, strani amanti

Che avevi lì davanti

Arrampicati in cima

A un’avventura o a un’Argentina

Ma è meglio

Non pensarci più

Argentina, Argentina, Argentina

Everything is great in Argentina, melancholy

We whipped their shoes in Buenos Aires

The sky reserved for emigrants

It is white and it looks like

Always in the morning

But it is better not to think about it anymore

Then comes the afternoon

The yellow lights

That everyone is making a noise

I bring some down

And the ships scream

- Let's go-

In front of a huge American sea

That rinses a dream

Old now

Argentina, Argentina, Argentina

He plays a band in Argentina, under the moon

The first night I still remember

An Indian woman with a brown face

She looks at us and I swear to you

Never any

She was as loved as she was

Loved by our tired eyes

And by the silence with which she was revered

Oh, strange lovers

That you had there in front of you

Climb to the top

To an adventure or to an Argentina

But it is better

Don't think about it anymore

Argentina, Argentina, Argentina