Translations of Fabrizio de André
Ballad of Blind Love
An honest man, an upright man
found himself with his heart aflame
for a woman who didn’t feel the same.
“Tomorrow,” she said, “come lay at my feet”
“Tomorrow,” she said, “come lay at my feet
your mother’s heart for my dogs to eat.”
So he went and killed his poor mama.
He yanked her heart right out of her chest
and went back to his love thinking she’d be impressed.
The heart didn’t do it. The heart didn’t do it.
To some further bloodshed she was inclined;
she wanted still more proof that his love was blind.
“If you really love me,” she insists
“If you really love me,” she insists,
you’ll open all the veins in both your wrists.”
He opened all the veins in both his wrists,
and as the blood spurted out of his veins,
he ran like a madman to see her again.
She said to him, in fits of laughter
She said to him, in fits of laughter,
“as a final test, it’s your death I’m after.”
And while his color faded away,
and his blood slowly dripped to the ground,
her vanity thrilled, for she could say:
a man had killed himself to try and bring her round.
Gently and sweetly blew the wind outside
but suddenly she found herself dissatisfied
when she saw that he was happy as he died.
Happy as he died, and in love it seemed
while she got nothing from all his pains:
not his love, nor his esteem,
only the drying blood flowing from his veins.
La ballata del amore cieco
Un uomo onesto, un uomo probo
d’una che non lo amava niente.
Gli disse “Portami domani”
gli disse “portami domani
il cuore di tua madre per i miei cani”.
Lui dalla madre andò e l’uccise
dal petto il cuore le strappò
e dal suo amore ritornò.
Non era il cuore non era il cuore
non le bastava quell’orrore
voleva un’altra prova del suo cieco amore.
Gli disse “Amor, se mi vuoi bene”
gli disse “Amor se mi vuoi bene
tagliati dei polsi le quattro vene”.
le vene ai polsi lui si tagliò
e come il sangue ne sgorgò
correndo come un pazzo da lei tornò.
Gli disse lei ridendo forte
gli disse lei ridendo forte
“L’ultima tua prova sara la morte”.
E mentre il sangue lento usciva
e ormai cambiava il suo colore
la vanita fredda gioiva
un uomo s’era ucciso per il suo amore.
Fuori soffiava dolce il vento
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.