Francesco Baracca - Sergio Endrigo

Era un antico mattino italiano

Con le mosche i papaveri il grano

Sembravano dipinti i contadini

Il sole il Po e gli eroici destini

Luglio milenovecentoqualcosa

All’improvviso dalla piana rugiadosa

Come l’acuto del tenore si stacca

L’aeroplano di Francesco Baracca

Vibrava forte l’uccello di tela

Leggero e fragile una vela

E si alzava a spirale in volo

Come un allegro valzer romagnolo

E di lassù la terra si mostrava

Come una donna felice gli si apriva

Senza timore e senza ritrosia

Scopriva la sua dolce geometria

E c’era Rimini c’era Riccione

E in fondo il Sud inesplorato meridione

E al Nord il rombo del cannone

Devastante come l’alluvione

E gli entrò nell’anima e nella mente

Quella sua Italia bella ed incosciente

E soffrì di gelosia guai a toccarla guai

A portarla via

E volò giù a giocare con la sorte

La gioventù non ha paura della morte

Non fu un duello non ci fu cavalleria

Ma un colpo basso della fanteria

E già perdeva quota la sua vita

Un fuoco d’artificio una cometa

Come un uccello ferito che cadendo

Diventa solo piume e vento e poi silenzio

Dice il poeta che morendo

La vita intera si rivede in un momento

I giochi le speranze le paure

I volti amati gli amici le avventure

Luglio millenovecentodiciotto

C’era un uomo che perdeva tutto

E l’Italia agraria e proletaria

Conquistava il primo asso dell’aria

Come un uccello ferito che cadendo

Diventa solo piume e vento e poi silenzio

It was an ancient Italian morning

With flies, poppies, wheat

The peasants looked like paintings

The sun, the Po and the heroic destinies

July one thousand nine hundred something

Suddenly from the dewy plain

How the high note of the tenor comes off

Francesco Baracca's airplane

The canvas bird vibrated strongly

Lightweight and fragile a sail

And he spiraled up in flight

Like a cheerful Romagna waltz

And from there the earth showed itself

Like a happy woman she opened up to him

Without fear and without reluctance

He discovered its sweet geometry

And there was Rimini there was Riccione

And basically the unexplored southern south

And in the North the roar of the cannon

As devastating as the flood

And he entered his soul and mind

That of his beautiful and unconscious Italy

And he suffered from jealousy woe to touch her woe

To take her away

And he flew down to play with fate

Youth is not afraid of death

It was not a duel, there was no cavalry

But a low blow from the infantry

And his life was already losing height

A firework, a comet

Like a wounded bird that falling

It becomes just feathers and wind and then silence

The poet says that by dying

The whole life is reviewed in a moment

Games, hopes, fears

The faces loved the friends the adventures

July one thousand nine hundred and eighteen

There was a man who lost everything

It is agrarian and proletarian Italy

He won the first ace in the air

Like a wounded bird that falling

It becomes just feathers and wind and then silence