At the top of the trident hill
perched like a chicken
is the house that the madman built
to have the moon closer.
The madman has been writing for twenty 'years
a song without truth 
but now it's late and maybe this evening
he will put a period and abandon it.
The stars are cold at the end of the port
where the houses change colour
where there is the smugglers' pier
and even love costs a little less.
Among the sailors waiting to board
and they laugh asking for another liter
an old man stares beyond the ships
where his sea has turned to glass.
At the top of the hill of the trident
the moon looks just like a potato
The fool's palace is illuminated
The celebration of forgiveness has begun.
Coming down from the lowest clouds
An angel flew into the room
And gave the gun to the madman
and the madman cleans it too carelessly.
On his grave the wind will be a kiss
the grass the caress of a lover
when the lamb it will bleat louder
and the sea will be a little less distant.
And the old man at the end of the port will be a saint
who gets drunk with his virtue
remembering that the sea it was different
when he sailed in his youth.

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