Dio È Morto

I saw,
the people of my age go away,
along the roads that lead nowhere,
looking for a dream that leads to madness,
in search of something they can't find, in the world they already know.
Along the nights soaked in wine,
inside rooms turned into pillboxes,
along the clouds of smoke, in a world made of cities,
to be against or to swallow, our tired civilization.
A god that's dead,
at the edges of the streets, God dead,
in cars bought on installments, God dead,
in the myths of summer... God dead.
They told me
that my generation no longer believes,
in what is often masked with faith,
in the eternal myths of the homeland or the hero,
because the time has come to deny, all that is false.
Faith made of habits and fear,
a politics that only seeks success,
self-interested respectability, dignity made of emptiness,
the hypocrisy of those who always side with reason and never with wrong.
A god that's dead,
in the extermination camps, God dead,
with the myths of race, God dead,
with the party hatred... God dead.
But I think
that my generation is ready,
for a new world and a newly born hope,
for a future already in our hands, for a revolt without weapons,
because we all know now, that if God dies for three days,
and then rises again.
In what we believe, God resurrected,
in what we want, God resurrected,
in the world we will create... God resurrected,
God resurrected.