HERE WE ARE BURIED FOREVER - THE BALLAD OF THE UNKNOWN SOLDER
I Gufi, 1968, by Lino Patruno - Walter Valdi
I Gufi are a legend of Milanese cabaret
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IELrgXUwmBA
This wonderful poem plays a tribute to the unknown solder.
Solders who died in all wars, fighting a war they did not ask for.
It does not matter whether they were the enemies or the victims.
They are just ashes, they died for wars too often unnecessary.
Today, the world faces the war in Ukraine, initiated by the Russian Federation.
The world witnesses the horrifying atrocities and the crimes committed the Russian armed forces.
The world witnesses the war in Yemen, genocides in Africa and in Asia.
Their leaders never listened to this poem.
It’s high time they do.
TEXT BY LUIGI LUNARI
Here we are buried forever;
and for us, the world stopped that day;
somebody mourned us,
somebody still remembers us from time to time.
However, a few steps from here,
a few steps from where the others say
‟may they rest in peace”,
cars swoosh past, on the big tarmac roads.
Restless kids at the back window,
a red dinghy or skis on the roof.
Somebody glimpses, discreet behind pine trees and hedges,
a thousand white crosses.
«A military cemetery. Think about that many dead people!»
Then off, a push on the accelerator, towards the weekend [holiday].
Nothing’s written on my cross;
to my body, charred under a tank,
nobody could give a name.
After they had examined my shoes, the only recognisable element,
they defined me ‟soldato inglese non identificato”,
unidentified British soldier.
I was a member of Wehrmacht instead;
my name is Richard Grüber, Berlin.
My shoes, mine were broken,
I had stolen them from a dead.
They only had to keep my feet warm;
instead, thanks to them, here I am:
me too, forever, together with the winners.
My name is Jan Piaziński;
an alpha, an omega, and two dates;
in between those dates, twenty years.
War swept me away,
slamming me from my Poland to this Italy,
that I always believed was full of sun, songs, and flowers,
and that I saw during a terrible, rainy, fiery Autumn.
I died one day, in November,
struck by a bomb, by chance.
I lived, without having the time to understand.
I died, without the time to realise it.
Charlie Wright is my name,
but since I was always laughing, they used to call me Smiley.
I was born on the shores of the Mississippi, and I was a poor negro,
kicked and spat at by white people in my country.
However, one day, a white man who had come from Washington, told me:
«Enough. We’re all equals, we’re all brothers,
whatever the colour of our skin.
Come with us, negro brother.»
I went and, boys, was it true!
I travelled with white people, I marched with white people,
I had the honour of dying, with white people!
Me, Charlie Wright called Smiley,
a poor negro born on the shores of the Mississippi
and dead on the bank of an unnamed ditch,
on a March day, in Italy.
These are our voices, that, together with a thousand others,
are heard by the trees, the crickets, the moon, at night.
And one day the crosses will fall down
and will blend with the ground.
And with the ground, the bones will blend,
which are still not resting in peace.
On the fields, kids will come,
and among the many questions of childhood,
maybe there will be this one too: «Dad, what is war?»
So, we’ll start explaining that once,
a long, long time ago,
men used to… to kill each other;
they lined up, men from a tribe,
a city, a state, «What’s a state?»
or a continent,
facing men from another tribe, another city,
another state, another continent;
and with guns, «What are guns?»
and with cannons, «What are cannons?»
and with bombs, «What are bombs?»
and… and they killed each other.
And this is war.
«Yeah, but why, dad? Why?»
And then we’ll fall silent and will pay attention.
And then, maybe, we too will finally know why.
TEXT BY WALTER VALDI
I can’t remember in which war,
In which sky, in which sea,
Or maybe it was just a strip of land
That I had to conquer.
A flag was waving,
But I can’t remember its colour anymore;
That day I had to die,
I no longer remember for whom.
May it burn just for my love,
Who was far away, waiting
And shedding bitter tears,
The day I left never to come back.
I was dressed as a soldier,
But I forgot the rest;
I don’t even know what was
The colour of my skin anymore.
I don’t know in which time I lived,
I don’t know whether I won or lost,
I know I shouted for the honour,
But I can no longer remember whose.
May it burn just for my love,
Who was far away, waiting
And shedding bitter tears,
The day I left never to come back.
On my grave there’s no name,
I have forgotten it myself;
There’s just a granite monument
And a soldier’s helmet.
There are many words written there,
But I no longer know their meaning;
And there’s a torch burning,
And it will burn forever.
May it burn just for my love,
Who was far away, waiting
And shedding bitter tears,
The day I left never to come back.
May it burn just for my love,
Who was far away, waiting
And shedding bitter tears,
The day I left never to come back.
May it burn just…
I Gufi, 1968, by Lino Patruno - Walter Valdi
I Gufi are a legend of Milanese cabaret
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IELrgXUwmBA
This wonderful poem plays a tribute to the unknown solder.
Solders who died in all wars, fighting a war they did not ask for.
It does not matter whether they were the enemies or the victims.
They are just ashes, they died for wars too often unnecessary.
Today, the world faces the war in Ukraine, initiated by the Russian Federation.
The world witnesses the horrifying atrocities and the crimes committed the Russian armed forces.
The world witnesses the war in Yemen, genocides in Africa and in Asia.
Their leaders never listened to this poem.
It’s high time they do.
TEXT BY LUIGI LUNARI
Here we are buried forever;
and for us, the world stopped that day;
somebody mourned us,
somebody still remembers us from time to time.
However, a few steps from here,
a few steps from where the others say
‟may they rest in peace”,
cars swoosh past, on the big tarmac roads.
Restless kids at the back window,
a red dinghy or skis on the roof.
Somebody glimpses, discreet behind pine trees and hedges,
a thousand white crosses.
«A military cemetery. Think about that many dead people!»
Then off, a push on the accelerator, towards the weekend [holiday].
Nothing’s written on my cross;
to my body, charred under a tank,
nobody could give a name.
After they had examined my shoes, the only recognisable element,
they defined me ‟soldato inglese non identificato”,
unidentified British soldier.
I was a member of Wehrmacht instead;
my name is Richard Grüber, Berlin.
My shoes, mine were broken,
I had stolen them from a dead.
They only had to keep my feet warm;
instead, thanks to them, here I am:
me too, forever, together with the winners.
My name is Jan Piaziński;
an alpha, an omega, and two dates;
in between those dates, twenty years.
War swept me away,
slamming me from my Poland to this Italy,
that I always believed was full of sun, songs, and flowers,
and that I saw during a terrible, rainy, fiery Autumn.
I died one day, in November,
struck by a bomb, by chance.
I lived, without having the time to understand.
I died, without the time to realise it.
Charlie Wright is my name,
but since I was always laughing, they used to call me Smiley.
I was born on the shores of the Mississippi, and I was a poor negro,
kicked and spat at by white people in my country.
However, one day, a white man who had come from Washington, told me:
«Enough. We’re all equals, we’re all brothers,
whatever the colour of our skin.
Come with us, negro brother.»
I went and, boys, was it true!
I travelled with white people, I marched with white people,
I had the honour of dying, with white people!
Me, Charlie Wright called Smiley,
a poor negro born on the shores of the Mississippi
and dead on the bank of an unnamed ditch,
on a March day, in Italy.
These are our voices, that, together with a thousand others,
are heard by the trees, the crickets, the moon, at night.
And one day the crosses will fall down
and will blend with the ground.
And with the ground, the bones will blend,
which are still not resting in peace.
On the fields, kids will come,
and among the many questions of childhood,
maybe there will be this one too: «Dad, what is war?»
So, we’ll start explaining that once,
a long, long time ago,
men used to… to kill each other;
they lined up, men from a tribe,
a city, a state, «What’s a state?»
or a continent,
facing men from another tribe, another city,
another state, another continent;
and with guns, «What are guns?»
and with cannons, «What are cannons?»
and with bombs, «What are bombs?»
and… and they killed each other.
And this is war.
«Yeah, but why, dad? Why?»
And then we’ll fall silent and will pay attention.
And then, maybe, we too will finally know why.
TEXT BY WALTER VALDI
I can’t remember in which war,
In which sky, in which sea,
Or maybe it was just a strip of land
That I had to conquer.
A flag was waving,
But I can’t remember its colour anymore;
That day I had to die,
I no longer remember for whom.
May it burn just for my love,
Who was far away, waiting
And shedding bitter tears,
The day I left never to come back.
I was dressed as a soldier,
But I forgot the rest;
I don’t even know what was
The colour of my skin anymore.
I don’t know in which time I lived,
I don’t know whether I won or lost,
I know I shouted for the honour,
But I can no longer remember whose.
May it burn just for my love,
Who was far away, waiting
And shedding bitter tears,
The day I left never to come back.
On my grave there’s no name,
I have forgotten it myself;
There’s just a granite monument
And a soldier’s helmet.
There are many words written there,
But I no longer know their meaning;
And there’s a torch burning,
And it will burn forever.
May it burn just for my love,
Who was far away, waiting
And shedding bitter tears,
The day I left never to come back.
May it burn just for my love,
Who was far away, waiting
And shedding bitter tears,
The day I left never to come back.
May it burn just…
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