Alle Terme di Caracalla

All of Roman history
near and far, feels like a dream.
And among the ruins that have stood for millennia,
the night and the day
I find myself daydreaming like this.

At the Baths of Caracalla
Romans played ball,
after the bath around three,
who throws it to me, who throws it to you,
or with our hands or with our feet.

At the Baths of Caracalla
maybe the fish came to the surface,
every night around three,
who throws it to me, who throws it to you,
then they’d catch themselves.

Then I think back
to the Horatii and Curiatii,
to the warriors who are no more,
to Poppea, to Nero, to the Patricians,
but I can’t load the TV.

At the Baths of Caracalla
Romans played ball,
after the bath around three,
who throws it to me, who throws it to you,
and then they’d shout: Olé!

After the bath around three,
who throws it to me, who throws it to you.

Every night around three,
who throws it to me, who throws it to you.

Nowadays though at Caracalla:
"A furtive tear"
in the night can be heard singing.
"A voice not long ago"
like an echo answers the crowd.
"Who prays for me at this moment"
Caracalla starts to shout.

At the Baths of Caracalla,
at night the moon is already bright,
on the way back we sing together
my dear, my dear,
my dear, my dear,
always happy we will be.

Always happy we will be. Olé!