How can I call spring

 

LISTEN TO - ASCOLTA

How can I call spring this darkness that I’ve got inside? 

It shouldn't be proper to live bad also in this time 

 I had a hope, that I have no more 

while the blossom is covered by snow 

How can I call spring the sadness that devours my mind 

I’ve tried to cover it but I lost my eyes 

now the new season is arrived here 

while all the reasons have gone so far 

Spring spring spring 

give me back that dream 

during which I had still some peace 

and I had still the strength to fight 

and I had still the will to try 

to live 

How can I call spring this cold wind from the stars?

Winter’s a prison I want to flee out so hard 

I have a face that I believe 

it’s a mistake I can’t erase 

Spring spring spring 

give me back that dream 

during which I had still some peace 

and I had still the strength to fight 

and I had still the will to try 

to live

I would like to be another man

 

LISTEN TO - ASCOLTA

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

When I am so sad 

the time collapses 

a sort of hangover 

without that mess 

 

And step by step 

I can become bad 

towards the others 

towards myself 

 

I would like to be another man 

with a different face and stronger hands 

someone who doesn’t try to find some sense 

in everywhere 

 

I would like to fly somewhere else 

where I have some light over my head 

without being frightened for all the gazes 

I could have 

 

This dark land 

I know so well 

it is becoming 

a sort of friend 

 

But it’s not proper 

to live this distress 

all the days I have 

since the hope is dead 

 

I would like to be another man 

with a different face and stronger hands 

someone who doesn’t try to find some sense 

in everywhere

 

I would like to fly somewhere else 

where I have some light over my head 

without being frightened for all the gazes 

I could have

Dopo la morte

 

Il vento ulula alla notte 

chiamandola per nome 

e lei arriva suadente 

proprio dopo la morte 

attesa e agognata 

di Heathcliff. 

Racconta con asprezza 

la natura dell'eternità: 

non un gioco di intenti 

non una speranza estrema 

ma ragnatela complessa 

da tessere nel quotidiano.