La domenica delle salme, traduzione inglese

Sono un traduttore Eng-Ita professionista.
Ho tradotto "La domenica delle salme" in inglese. Se opportuno, postatela. Grazie, Saluti.

F. De André
"La domenica delle salme"
Original English Translation

He tried to escape by tram
at about 6 a. m.
from the barley water bottle
in which Milan City floats.
It wasn't difficult to follow him
the Poet of the Baggina Nursing Home
His soul ignited
sent out the glow of a light bulb.
They burned his bed
on the way to Trento
he could save himself from his own beard,
a fighting robin.
The Poles didn't die right away
and kneeling to the last trafficlights
Refreshed the make-up
on the bitches of the regime
launching off towards the sea.
The soap smugglers
pointed their bellies eastwards,
whoever converted in '90
was excused in '91.
The monkey of the fourth Reich
danced the polka on the wall top
and while it was climbing up
we all saw its butt.
The pyramid of Cheops
wanted to be rebuilt on that day of celebration,
brick by brick, slave by slave,
Communist by Communist.

On Corpse Sunday
no gun shots were heard around
the laughing gas
kept patrolling the streets
Corpse Sunday
took all worries away
and the queens of "tua culpa"
crowded the hairdresser salons.

In the sunny State Prison
The second prison guard
said to "Tallow Moustache"
who was the first
"That can be done tomorrow,
at daybreak".
And emissaries were dispatched,
infantrymen, horses, dogs and a donkey
to announce the amputation of the leg
of Renato Curcio, the Carbonaro.
The Minister of Storms
in an explosion of trombones
wished for democracy
with a cloth on his hands
and hands on his nuts,
"I want to live in a city
where at cocktail hour
there's no shedding of blood or detergent".
Late in the evening, I
and my distinguished cousin De Andrade
were the last free citizens
of this famous civil city,
because we had a cannon in the courtyard,
a cannon in the courtyard.

On Corpse Sunday
no one got hurt
everyone following the coffin
of the ideal deceased
On Corpse Sunday
One could hear singing around
"How beautiful youth is
we don't want to get any older".
The last wayfarers
Retreated to the cathacombs
turned the tv on
and watched us singing,
for half an hour,
then they sent us off to shit.
You who have sung on stilts
and on your knees
with pianos over your shoulders,
dressed as Pinocchio,
you who have sung for the Lombards
and for the Centrists,
for the Amazon and for the money,
in fashion designers' arenas
and at the Marist Fathers',
you had powerful voices,
tongues trained to beat the drum.
You had powerful voices
well-suited for the ‘Fuck off!’

On Corpse Sunday
the people in charge of nostalgia
accompanied, amid the flutes,
Utopia's cadaver.
Corpse Sunday
was a Sunday like any other.
The day after, there were signs
of a terrifying peace,

while the heart of Italy
from Palermo to Aosta
swelled in a chorus
of quivering protest.

Gianfranco Strazzanti
WhatsApp 0035677229142

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