A les cinquanta estrelles (Dona)

Woman, today I write to you,
now that I still can,
maybe tomorrow
I won't be able to call you beloved.
I have the gun, oh love,
left on the table,
and what can I tell you, oh love,
that doesn't carry bullets.

Today as well, oh love,
I've shot a thousand bullets,
and I don't have my body, oh love,
hurt by a thousand stares.

Who gave me the right to kill?
Who turned the gun into a scale?
The cry reaches me
of pain and hunger,
dead with white eyes
are my companions.

I will walk a path with no return.
I will offer my body
so any bullet
stops the rhythm of the heart
that hasn't truly lived until now.

Who gave me the right to kill?...