Confessioni Di Un Malandrino

I like to walk with messy hair
With my head on my shoulders like a lamp
That's how I enjoy lighting up
Your featherless autumn

I like it when insults rain on my face
The dense hail of offense
I only grasp to feel alive
At the shell of my hair

And in my mind returns that pond
That the reeds and moss have submerged
And my parents who don't know
They have a son who composes verses

But they love me like the fields
To the skin, and to the seasonal rain
It will be rare for those who offend me to escape
From the tips of the pitchfork

Poor peasant parents
Surely you have aged and still fear
The lord of the sky and the marshes
Parents who will never understand
That today your son has become
The first among the poets of the village
And now in polished shoes
And with a top hat on his head he walks

But in him survives the frenzy
Of an old country rogue
And at every butcher's sign
He bows to the cow, his companion

And when he meets a coachman
His childhood leather comes to mind
And he would like the tail of the nag
To hold like a bridal train

I love my homeland
Although afflicted with rusty trunks
I cherish the dirty snout of the pigs
And the toads sighing in the shade

I am sick with childhood and memories
And with fresh April twilights
It almost seems like the maple tree bends
To warm up and then sleep

From the nest of that tree the eggs
To steal saliva up to the top
But its foliage will always be new
And its bark as tough as before
And you my dear old friend dog
Weak and blind old age has made you
And you wander with a low tail in the yard
Unaware of the barn doors

My childhood thefts are dear to me
When I stole a bit of bread at home
And it was eaten like two brothers
A crumb for the man and one for the dog

I haven't changed
The heart and thoughts are the same
On the magnificent carpet of verses
I want to tell you something that touches you

Good night! The moon's sickle
So quiet as the air turns brown
From my window I want to shout
Against the moon's disk

The night is so clear
Perhaps even dying here doesn't hurt
What does it matter if my spirit is perverse
And a lantern hangs from my back

Oh decrepit and kind Pegasus
Your gallop is now purposeless
I arrived like a solitary master
And I sing and celebrate only the mice
From my head like ripe grapes
Drips the crazy wine of my hair
I want to be a yellow sail
Swelling towards a nameless country