Bologna

Bologna is an old lady with a bit of a soft side
with her chest on the flatlands and her ass on the hills,
Bologna, proud and papal, Bologna the red and fertile,
Bologna the fat and human, a bit Romagna and smelling of Tuscany...

Bologna for me, a provincial Paris in miniature:
outdoor markets, bistros, the scent of the "left bank"
with Sartre preaching, Baudelaire singing among the absinthe
and I, a vulgar Modenese, sweating for a love, even if it’s just a side gig.

But what a cozy Bohemia played between home and taverns
when with every drink, philosophies bounce around...
Oh how poetic we were, but without shame or fear
and the old drunks seemed like literature...
Oh how artistic we all were, but without shame or embarrassment
rocked between the porticos, the thighs of Mama Bologna...

Bologna is an Emilian woman with strong cheekbones,
Bologna capable of love, capable of death,
who knows what matters and what’s worth it, who knows where the sauce of salt is,
who calculates life just right and knows how to stand tall no matter how hit...

Bologna is a rich lady who used to be a farmer:
well-being, villas, jewels... and salami in the window,
who knows that the smell of misery is serious business
and wants to feel secure with what she’s got on, because she knows fear.

Waste your scent of well-being though with the strange pairing
of the dead for dreams in front of your Saint Petronio
and your Bolognese, if they exist, are either here or have gotten lost
confused and tied to thousands of different worlds?
Oh how many words sing to you, rocking the clichés of the people,
singing songs that are like singing about nothing...

Bologna is a strange lady, a vulgar matron,
Bologna, a well-behaved girl, Bologna the "broad,"
Bologna, the belly button of it all, you make me gasp and burp,
regret for what you’ve given me, which is almost a memory, and smelling of the past...