La Locomotiva

I don't know what face he had, not even what his name was,
how he spoke, with what voice he then sang,
how many years he had seen back then,
what color his hair was,
but in my imagination I have his image:
heroes are all young and beautiful.
heroes are all young and beautiful.
heroes are all young and beautiful.

Instead, I know the era of the facts, what his profession was:
the early years of the century, a machinist, a railwayman,
the times when the holy war of the poor began:
it seemed the train itself was a myth of progress,
launched across continents.
launched across continents.
launched across continents.

And the locomotive seemed to be a strange monster,
that man controlled with thought and hand:
roaring, leaving behind distances
that seemed infinite,
it seemed to have a tremendous power inside,
the same force as dynamite.
the same force as dynamite.
the same force as dynamite.

But another great force was spreading its wings then:
words saying 'all men are equal',
and against kings and tyrants
the proletarian bomb exploded in the street,
illuminating the air
with the torch of anarchy.
with the torch of anarchy.
with the torch of anarchy.

A train passed by his station every day:
a luxury train, a distant destination.
He saw revered people,
thought of those velvets, the gold,
thought of the meager day of his people around,
thought of a train full of gentlemen.
thought of a train full of gentlemen.
thought of a train full of gentlemen.

STRUM

(voice rises)
I don't know what happened, why he made the decision.
Perhaps an ancient rage, generations without a name
that screamed for revenge,
blinded his heart,
forgot mercy, forgot his kindness,
his bomb, the steam engine.
his bomb, the steam engine.
his bomb, the steam engine.

(voice rises a semitone)
And one day like any other, but maybe with more anger inside,
he thought he had a way to right a wrong:
he climbed the sleeping monster,
tried to send away his fear,
and before thinking about what he was doing,
the monster devoured the plain.
the monster devoured the plain.
the monster devoured the plain.

(voice rises)
The other train ran unaware, almost without haste:
no one imagined they were heading towards revenge.
But at the Bologna station
the news arrived in a flash:
'Emergency news, act urgently,
a madman has thrown himself against the train!'
a madman has thrown himself against the train!'
a madman has thrown himself against the train!'

But meanwhile, the locomotive runs, runs, runs,
and the steam hisses and almost seems alive,
and seems to say to the bent farmers,
the loud whistle spreading in the air:
'Brother, do not fear, for I run to my duty!
May proletarian justice triumph!'
May proletarian justice triumph!'
May proletarian justice triumph!'

And it runs, runs, runs, runs even stronger,
and runs, runs, runs, runs towards death,
and nothing can now hold back
the immense destructive force,
waiting only for the crash and then the arrival
of the great consoler.
of the great consoler.
of the great consoler.

History tells us how the race ended:
the machine diverted along a dead track.
With its last animal cry,
the machine erupted with ash and lava,
exploded towards the sky, then the smoke spread its veil,
they picked him up still breathing.
they picked him up still breathing.
they picked him up still breathing.

But we like to think of him still behind the engine,
while making the steam engine run away,
and that one day
we receive the news again
of a locomotive like a living thing,
launched as a bomb against injustice!
launched as a bomb against injustice!
launched as a bomb against injustice!