Gli emigranti, poesia di Edmondo De Amicis



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.

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