Italian song about comics
http://www.alessiolega.it/canzoni.php?testi=carta
My new friend Maurizio sent me this song. I thinks it's a really nice, surprisingly poetic homage to the 9th art (as they call it here in Belgium.) Seeing as most of my readers are anglophones, I'll do my best to translate the lyrics accurately.
How much sea can you find
in a sheet marked with black!
How many stories are there to be told,
How much does a dream or thought cost?
What material are dreams made of
which burn at your door?
How much do those drawings weigh,
if you remove the weight of the paper?
They have the texture of the morning,
And then find an emotion in you,
But it's like trying to read destiny
written in the verses of a song.
If the prison in that sketch
Is straighter than your monocle,
inside there's a spaceship waiting for you
In ten pages, there's a space war.
But be sure that evasion also has its risks,
When it's made of music or paper.
You close the book, turn off the record-player
And you find yourself again in a world of shit:
In a job that consumes the days,
In a future that now has no pretenses,
and time is a trip with no return,
You don't have Corto Maltese's boat.
Ah, to sail someday without a destination
It could only be a better world,
Maybe some secret island,
in which "politics" doesn't rhyme with "squalor."
When you can spot a villain outside
By their murderous grin
Where bandits take prisoners,
And not the presidents of the council.
And wounds aren't fatal,
And there are clouds, falcons, and real birds
And if you look up in a Middle-Eastern sky,
You see seagulls, and not bomber planes!
But this seems more like a utopia
Than a simple adventure in paper
Which isn't called a "comic" but "anarchy"
And you can't buy it like a cake.
Sometimes that sad life
of overdoses and crises of abstinence
takes up the pictures in magazines,
but there's something to cry about, and to be patient for
One must understand that even this art
it's not only to be read by cretins
That there's heart hidden in the pages
And pain in the grey of the nets
And don't be astonished if sometime, by chance
Raising your eyes to the sky in a hurry
You feel disappointed
Over your head, like a cloud...
My new friend Maurizio sent me this song. I thinks it's a really nice, surprisingly poetic homage to the 9th art (as they call it here in Belgium.) Seeing as most of my readers are anglophones, I'll do my best to translate the lyrics accurately.
How much sea can you find
in a sheet marked with black!
How many stories are there to be told,
How much does a dream or thought cost?
What material are dreams made of
which burn at your door?
How much do those drawings weigh,
if you remove the weight of the paper?
They have the texture of the morning,
And then find an emotion in you,
But it's like trying to read destiny
written in the verses of a song.
If the prison in that sketch
Is straighter than your monocle,
inside there's a spaceship waiting for you
In ten pages, there's a space war.
But be sure that evasion also has its risks,
When it's made of music or paper.
You close the book, turn off the record-player
And you find yourself again in a world of shit:
In a job that consumes the days,
In a future that now has no pretenses,
and time is a trip with no return,
You don't have Corto Maltese's boat.
Ah, to sail someday without a destination
It could only be a better world,
Maybe some secret island,
in which "politics" doesn't rhyme with "squalor."
When you can spot a villain outside
By their murderous grin
Where bandits take prisoners,
And not the presidents of the council.
And wounds aren't fatal,
And there are clouds, falcons, and real birds
And if you look up in a Middle-Eastern sky,
You see seagulls, and not bomber planes!
But this seems more like a utopia
Than a simple adventure in paper
Which isn't called a "comic" but "anarchy"
And you can't buy it like a cake.
Sometimes that sad life
of overdoses and crises of abstinence
takes up the pictures in magazines,
but there's something to cry about, and to be patient for
One must understand that even this art
it's not only to be read by cretins
That there's heart hidden in the pages
And pain in the grey of the nets
And don't be astonished if sometime, by chance
Raising your eyes to the sky in a hurry
You feel disappointed
Over your head, like a cloud...