Guccini Francesco
What Doesn't...
What Doesn't...
F.Guccini
Do you see that high pressure in the sky? Do you feel it is a strange season?
But at night the fog tells you in one breath that the god of winter has
arrived.
Do you feel a plane taking you far away? Can you hear that sound of a piano
of an out-of-tune Mozart who tries and tries again but can't find the sense of truth?
Do you hear the reason for wet courtyards, cars dying in the meadows,
the pale line of old wounds, of letters no longer sent?
Do you see the sound of faded fairy tales? Do you know that we are nothing anymore?
We are not a plane nor a plane out of tune, season, courtyard or a lawn
Do you know the smell of deserted streets that lead to old discoveries,
a oil, frames, corroded chimneys, mysterious suburbs, implacable rails nowhere, beds, camp beds, alcoves? Do you know what color the low clouds have, and the seats of a former third class,
the anguish that gives an infinite plain? Do you want me and life, of an ordinary day, of a barren shore? Do you know that we are no longer
nothing?
We are not a road nor melancholy, a train or a suburb,
we are neither discovery nor faded bank, we are neither a day nor life
We are not the dust of a gloomy corner nor a stone thrown into a glass,
the crack of the sun in a wheat field, we are not, we are not, we are not
we are.< br/>The sky becomes striped and that high pressure is a second-run film,
it is the usual scream that slowly says: we are not, we are not, we are not .

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