Ho Visto Anche Degli Zingari Felici

It's true that from the window we can't see the light because the night always wins over the day and the night doesn't produce blood
It's true that our air becomes more childish and is chased along dead-end streets
It's true that we can't talk and that we always talk too much
It's true, we spit on the ground when we see a hunchback, a thirteen or a drunk pass by

Or when we don't want to crack the wonderful balance of endless hatred of a happiness without the worst
It's true that we don't want to pay the guilt of having no faults and that we prefer to die
Rather than lower our face, it's true, we always look for love in the wrong arms

It's true that we don't want to change our winter into summer, it's true that poets scare us
Because poets caress hunchbacks too much, love the smell of bitters, hate the end of the day
Because poets always open their window even if we say it's the wrong window

It's true that we don't understand each other, that we never speak the same language in two
And we are afraid of the dark and also of the light, it's true, that we have so much to do that we never do anything

It's true that often the road seems like hell, a voice in which we can't stay together, where we never recognize our brothers
It's true that we drink the blood of our fathers and hate all our women and all our friends
But I have also seen happy gypsies chasing each other, making love and rolling on the ground
I have also seen happy gypsies in Piazza Maggiore getting drunk on moonlight, revenge, and war