1882
With dull eyes, with hollow cheeks,
Pale, in a sad and serious manner,
Supporting the broken and pale women,
They board the ship
How one ascends the stage of death.
And each one tightens his trembling chest
Everything he owns on earth.
Others a miserable bundle, others a sufferer
Baby, who grabs hold of him
Around the neck, terrified by the immense waters.
They go up in a long line, humble and silent,
And above the faces he appeared brown and haggard
The desolate anxiety is still humid
Best regards
Given to the mountains they will never see again.
They go up, and each one's pupil is sad
On the rich and gentle Genoa arrests,
Intent in an act of profound amazement,
Like above a party
A dying man would stare.
Piled up there like mares
On the icy bow bitten by the winds,
*They migrate to inhospitable and distant lands;
Tattered and emaciated,
They cross the seas to look for bread.
Betrayed by a lying merchant,
They go, object of ridicule to the stranger,
Beasts of burden, despised helots,
Cemetery meat,
They go to live in anguish in unknown shores.
They go, unaware of everything, where it takes them
Hunger, in lands where other people have died;
Like the blind beggar or vagabond
He wanders from door to door,
Thus they go from world to world.
They go with their children like a great treasure
Hiding a gold coin in my chest,
Secret fruit of infinite fools,
And the women with them,
Stupid weeping martyrs.
Even in the anguish of that last hour
The soil that rejects them still loves;
They still love the damned soil
Who devours his children,
Where a thousand sweat and only one survives.
And they have them in their hearts in those solemn moments
The beautiful hills of cheerful sounding waters,
And the white churches, and the calm people
Lakes surrounded by plants,
And the quiet villages where they were born!
And each one perhaps letting out a cry,
If he could, he would return to the shore;
It would come back to die on the natives
Monti, in the sad nest
Where his old villains cry.
Goodbye, poor old people! In less than a year
Eaten by poverty and worry,
Perhaps you will die there without mourning,
And the children will not know,
And you will go naked and alone to the cemetery.
Poor old people, goodbye! Maybe by now
From the silent hills that the sunset gilds
Raise your hands and bless your children...
Bless them again:
Everyone goes to suffer, many to die.
Here is the majestic and slow ship
Set sail, Genoa turns, the wind blows.
A veil spreads over the vague shore,
And the group is dismayed
He raises a desolate cry to the sky.
Whoever stretches out his arms to the shore that dispar.
Whoever bows his face in his bundle,
Who pouring a bitter wave from the eyes
His partner embraces,
He who supplicates God bows his knees.
And the ship hastens, and the day dies,
And a sound of cries and screams of pain
Vaguely confused at the sound of the wave
It comes to die in the heart
Of the crowd watching from the bank.
Goodbye, brothers! Goodbye, sorrowful crowd!
May the sky and the merciful sea be merciful to you,
May the sun cheer you up on the miserable journey;
Goodbye, poor people,
Give yourself peace and take courage.
Tighten the knot of fraternal affections.
Protect the children from the cold,
Divide the rags, the money, the bread,
Challenge united and tight
The raging of human disasters.
And God will help you cross those seas,
And return to the humble and dear villages,
And find even more deserted ones
Houses on the edge
Your old people with open arms.
