| Listen,
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| do you remember when he came
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| the ship of the Phoenician to take away
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| me with all the desire to sing
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| men, the world and make poetry out of it ...
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| With the blue eye I greeted you
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| with the blue one I already regretted you
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| and the tree trembled and I saw earth,
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| the Greeks, the fires and the endless war ...
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| I saw them one by one
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| as they opened their hand
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| and they showed me the fate
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| as if to say "We choose,
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| there is no God who is stronger "
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| And the black shadow that passed
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| laughing he repeated "no" ...
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| Listen
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| I had left to sing
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| big men behind big shields
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| and I have seen little men kill
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| small, clumsy, desperate and naked ...
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| There I also met an old aedo
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| who went blind to stay in the dream
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| with the blue eye, on the other hand, I have seen and see,
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| but with a blue eye I turn and remember ...
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| But you weren't talking to me
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| and my ideas like lizards
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| they withdrew their heads inside the wall
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| when it's late
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| because it is cold, because it is dark
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| and a thousand solitudes
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| and holes to hide ...
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| And I saw a love among the lamps:
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| and him whom he laid on the bed
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| the friend with two swords in his heart,
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| and he kissed his face and chest crying ...
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| And I came back to see you go
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| and as you leave and greet me quickly
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| of all the words you can say
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| you ask me "Can you give me a cigarette?"
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| I'm sorry I don't have Muratti
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| the sidewalk to Turin yes I know
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| but it is one thing to do yourself a little
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| other company to wait for that
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| the train go away so I can help you
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| you do not know to go and this to
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| those who break up never happen,
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| but I never considered you
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| my stuff I have my fairy tales,
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| and you a story of yours.
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| But you weren't talking to me
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| and my ideas like lizards
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| they withdrew their heads
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| inside the wall when it's late
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| because it's cold, because it's dark ...
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| and still loneliness
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| and holes to hide ...
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| And you are not alone when another has left you
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| you are alone if someone
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| he never came
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| however going down I lose the pieces on the stairs
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| and who passes on it
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| he doesn't know he's hurting me
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| but don't come and tell me
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| now forget it
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| or that the struggle must continue,
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| because if this story was a song
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| with my end,
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| you wouldn't go away. |