This is a DIY translation of a song I love, performed by the Italian singer Pierangelo Bertoli.
Italian is a beautiful language and the original is incredible, but my translation was seriously lacking in poetic value, so there are some minimal additions here and there in the text, which I hope are in keeping with the intended meaning.
Fisherman
© Original text by Fabrizio de Andre, Gian Pietro Reverberi, Franco Zauli
Throw your nets, fisherman, the catch will be good.
And sing your songs to calm the thunderstorm.
Think of your son, who waved you good-bye; think of him so.
And your wife will wake up this beautiful morning,
and so will converse with God,
And so will converse with God:
Tell me, tell me, my Lord, tell me that he will come home;
Keep my man safe from the perils of the sea.
I am so young – and black is such a sad colour
My skin, soft and scented, needs to feel caresses still,
needs to feel caresses still.
Pull, fisherman, don’t stop.
There’s too little fish in the net for all your long days at sea.
Sea that never gave you much;
Sea of great fury and giant-like waves
that makes you curse between clenched teeth.
Tell me, tell me, oh Lord, whether he’ll come home from the sea,
This man that I feel is less and less mine and another is smiling at me.
Take him off my mind; don’t lead me to a sin;
I feel a thrill when he looks at me,
And this rose is a gift from him,
And this rose is a gift from him.
A rose, a rose – a pledge of love,
A rose, a thorny rose.
Now, in the silence of the night, his lips are so close to mine.
No, for God’s sake, don’t let him come home;
this bond is too strong to break for me; a bond far too strong.
Pull, fisherman, don’t stop.
Even when the wave overcomes you and tears you away from your thoughts.
And sweeps you like the wind sweeps a leaf, making you want to let go
light in its iron embrace.
But then, cunning is death.
Tell me, tell me, my Lord, tell me that he will come home;
The man I feel is mine, the man that will not
That won’t know about him and I, about his vain promises,
The red rose here between my fingers,
The story that’s only just started, already over.
Pull, fisherman, don’t stop.
There’s too little fish in the net for all your long days at sea.
Sea that never gave you much;
Sea of great fury and giant-like waves
that makes you curse between clenched teeth.
Sea that calms down and is quiet, without surrender,
And expects you,
Expects you again.
Purple Travel Path 