For ever yours, Cyrano!

Cyrano - Paint by Laura Tedeschi

The last song os Sir Cyrano (Cyrano) - Francesco Guccini

Come on all ye, come on, my paint’d ladies all
so prettie and snooty, come on, I can’t bear ye any more,
my pen it will be driven into your boundless pride
for with this brand o’ mine I can kill ye at my ease.
Come on all ye, come on, ye all paltry poetasters,
ye uselesse singers of this calamytous time
ye fools who live on your spineless verses
ye have gold and glory, yet ye are big nothings.
Enjoy your success, ye fools, get the most out of it,
ye certaynlie will not feare your sheepe-like audience,
God only knoweth where ye flee to escape taxes
so arrogant, as if ye were the tops of the class,
hearken! I’m only a poore cadet o’ gascoyne
but I swear I can’t stand those who have no dreams
I won’t be taken in your nerve and tinselries
and, to end my licence, no pardon and I touch ye,
no pardon shall ye have and I touch ye!
hearken! Let’s break it off, so come on ye alle,
ye foole rabble-rousers, the leaders of our time,
come on all canvassers and second-rate poolitickers,
you alle cruel masters of false ceremonies,
who have so often turn’d laissez-faire into art,
come on, out with the truth and don’t cheat any longer,
ye know that some one will burden all expenses
In this most bless’d land ravaged by nonsense,
I know I’m always wrong, but I don’t give a damne,
displeasing is my pleasure, I love to be hated,
with bullies and slyboots have I play’d my whole life,
and, to end my licence, no pardon and I touch ye!
No pardon shall ye have and I touch ye!
But when I am alone, with my nose down to my feet,
that walks ten yards befor’ me since I came to light,
my anger it does abate, I remember with payne
that heaven it forbade me the sweet dream of love,
How many I did love, how many I did have,
I don’t know, I lost them alle by my fault or by fate,
but when I feel the burden of always being alone,
I shut my door and write, writing’s my solace.
And yet I feel, I do feel that life’s love it exists
with no sin do I love, I am so sad yet I love,
my Roxanne she’s so fair, but, alas! we’re so diff’rent
I can’t talke with her, I'll speake with my verses!
I'll speake with my verses!
Come on all ye, vacuous people, let’s break it off right now,
Ye priestes, who sell us alle the dreame of the other world,
If there’s, as ye do say, a God in the endless heaven
then look into your heart, ye’ve betrayed him!
And ye material people, ye who never give up saying
that God is dead and man is alone in this abysme,
ye looke after your truth on the ground like swines,
ye may keepe your acornes, but please leave me my winges,
go back home, ye dwarfes, get out of my way,
for mine immense rage I need ettins and giantes,
I’ve never been caught in any reveal’d truth,
and, to end my licence, no pardon and I touch ye!
No pardon shall ye have and I touch ye!
With my nose and my brande my enemies I do touch.
But nowe in mine Life I cannot find my way,
I should not give up and resign to my badness,
thou only canst me save, thou only and I do write it.
I do feel it must be a place in heaven or on earthe,
where we any more won’t suffer and all it will be right,
don’t laugh, I beg thee, don’t laughe att my wordes,
for I am only a shadow, and thou art the sun, Roxanne!
Yet I wat thou’rt not laughing, I wat, my sweetest lady,
and I won’t hide my selfe under your balcony,
for I do feel it right now, my pain’s not been in vain
If you love me as I am,
and I remain your servant, for ever yours, Cyrano!

The tree and I - L'albero ed io

Fotos by Laura Tedeschi - Asiago - Italy -  December 2010

When my last day on earth will come, after my last glance at the world
I do not want any stone on my grave, for it too heavy would seem to me
Look for a tree, a young and strong tree, that’s the right stone for my grave,
I want to lie even after my death under that sky people say it’s of God.

And in winter, during the long rest, under my tree I will lie still alive
As if I were sleeping I’ll trustfully wait till I’ll awake one day or another
And in spring we’ll hear thousands of voices and that will be our rebirth
And I willl raise my fingers like boughs to that sky so full of mystery.

And in summer, if the wind does accept what ev’ry sprout is inviting to do
We’ll wave leaves like flags in the air and we shall sing songs of life
And so, together, we’ll live forever, but here on Earth, I and my tree
Always standing out in summer and winter against that sky people say it’s
of God

Francesco Guccini


Quando il mio ultimo giorno verrà dopo il mio ultimo sguardo sul mondo,
non voglio pietra su questo mio corpo, perchè pesante mi sembrerà.
Cercate un albero giovane e forte, quello sarà il posto mio;
voglio tornare anche dopo la morte sotto quel cielo che chiaman di Dio.

Ed in inverno nel lungo riposo, ancora vivo, alla pianta vicino,
come dormendo, starò fiducioso nel mio risveglio in un qualche mattino.
E a primavera, fra mille richiami, ancora vivi saremo di nuovo
e innalzerò le mie dita di rami verso quel cielo così misterioso.

Ed in estate, se il vento raccoglie l'invito fatto da ogni gemma fiorita,
sventoleremo bandiere di foglie e canteremo canzoni di vita.
E così, assieme, vivremo in eterno qua sulla terra, l'albero e io
sempre svettanti, in estate e in inverno contro quel cielo che dicon di Dio

Francesco Guccini

...you smiled, and you knew how to smiling,... with your twenty years taken so, like wearing a formless sweater on a old jeans

... "you smiled, and you knew how to smiling... with your twenty years taken so, like wearing a formless sweater on a old jeans"

from: Farewell, Francesco Guccini

Laura Tedeschi's Paintings

... "e sorridevi e sapevi sorridere..coi tuoi 20 anni portati cosi'...Come si porta un maglione sformato su un paio di Jeans"

da: Farewell, Francesco Guccini

My small town, where I grew up - piccola cittá

Small town, my strange dear old friend, I know you...
fog and smoke, the smell of memory, purple glass, first days of school, the rueful smell of religion
faces, pains and seasons, loves and talking brick, silly adolescence, stupid and false innocence, unhappy puberty cried often softly
small town, old girl...
street corner's witnesses of my erotic dreams,
frustrations and loves never understood...
Small towns, old courtyards...
Spring dreams, rhymes and faiths youth, I cry but I do not regret your powder, your mud, your lives,
your stones, gold and marble, so different are you now, I am always the same, always different...

ps: I'm back

 from my photo album of these last days in Italy

Piccola cittá, cara strana vecchia amica, io ti conosco...
fumo e nebbia, odore di ricordi, vetrate viola, primi gioni della scuola, il mesto odore di religione,
facce, dolori e stagioni, amori e mattoni che parlano, stupida adolescenza, falsa e stupida innocenza, pubertá infelice spesso urlata a mezza voce
Piccola cittá, vecchia bambina...
angoli di strada testimoni degli erotici miei sogni,
frustrazioni e amori mai compresi...
Piccola cittá, vecchi cortili...
sogni primaverili, rime e fedi giovanili, piango, ma non rimpiango la tua polvere il tuo fango le tue vite i tuoi sassi, oro e marmo, cosí diversa sei adesso, io sono sempre lo stesso, sempre diverso...

ps: sono tornata

Francesco Guccini's Lirycs "Van loon" dedicated to his father - Laura Tedeschi's painting " Francesco, one life" dedicated to my grandfather

Paint of laura Tedeschi "Franccesco one life"

I daresay Van Loon was a man whose destiny should have been working hard
Albeit his shoulders and his intelligence could not bear all that;
He seemed to have been kiss’d by his lucky star
When he had to go away;
He’s never gone down into history, we know,
But it’s easy to be wise after the event
But nobody has ever ask’d an eagle
Or a mouse to make a choice;
Then, one certain day marks one’s future
Or a war breaks the glass like a stone...
But I’ve seen mice roaring sometimes
And other times eagles falling down.

How many years we’ve to live together with somebody, day after day,
To understand what he’s got in his mind, what he wants or who he is,
Explorers of void, of anybody
Who’s not I or myself;
Van Loon was alive, yet I believed he was dead
Or worse than ever, useless owing to the distance
Between his many myths and the proudness of my youth days
And my ignorance;
I didn’t know how much he had been sailing
O’er the foamy main like Sebastian Cabot
And that a whalefish had been becoming
Day after day a sweetwater fish...

Van Loon, Van Loon
Tell me what is your burden when your mind
Keeps quiet and finally lets you be,
Do you cherish a shadow, or is peace
Inside you?
I’d like to know
What are you seeing when you look around,
Are they distant sights or are you pleas’d
With this daylight like a new gift
To you?

Van Loon, Van Loon
What are you thinking in the september mist
Sketching here and there the Appennines
Now that you have so much time for thinking,
But of what?
Go, old man, go
Anybody’s his own reasons, don’t be afraid,
And his own rights to do anything
Even tho’ we’ll never know what...

Now Van Loon’s preparing his last journey
He’s already packed like any far-seeing man,
The usual luggage of any simple or wise man
So very little, or nothing
He’ll really go down to his own place or his own history
With all the books that he could not write in his life
And with old friends long lost in his memories,
With infinite
To an everlasting summer, be it even on our mountains,
But, if he wants, even to that untroubled winter
When the frozen snow crunched under his hobnailed
Boots, when he was eighteen...
when he was eighteen...

Francesco Guccini - Van Loon Lyrics dedicated to his father
Translation of Riccardo Venturi


Van Loon, uomo destinato direi da sempre ad un lavoro più forte
che le sue spalle o la sua intelligenza non volevano sopportare
sembrò quasi baciato da una buona sorte
quando dovette andare;
sembra però che non sia mai entrato nella storia,
ma sono cose che si sanno sempre dopo,
d' altra parte nessuno ha mai chiesto di scegliere
neanche all' aquila o al topo;
poi un certo giorno timbra tutto un avvenire
od una guerra spacca come una sassata,
ma ho visto a volte che anche un topo sa ruggire
ed anche un' aquila precipitata...

Quanti anni, giorno per giorno, dobbiamo vivere con uno
per capire cosa gli nasca in testa o cosa voglia o chi è,
turisti del vuoto, esploratori di nessuno
che non sia io o me;
Van Loon viveva e io lo credevo morto
o, peggio, inutile, solo per la distanza
fra i suoi miti diversi e la mia giovinezza e superbia d' allora,
la mia ignoranza:
che ne sapevo quanto avesse navigato
con il coraggio di un Caboto fra le schiume
di ogni suo giorno e che uno squalo è diventato,
giorno per giorno, pesce di fiume...

Vaa Loon, Von Loon,
che cosa porti dentro, quando tace
la mente e la stagione si dà pace?
Insegui un' ombra o quella stessa pace l' hai in te?
Vorrei sapere
che cosa vedi quando guardi attorno,
lontani panorami o questo giorno
è già abbastanza, è come un nuovo dono per te?

Van Loon, Van Loon,
a cosa pensi in questo settembrino
nebbieggiare alto che macchia l' Appennino,
ora che hai tanto tempo per pensare, ma a chi?
Vai, vecchio, vai,
non temere, che avrà una sua ragione
ognuno ed una giustificazione,
anche se quale non sapremo mai, mai!

Ora Van Loon si sta preparando piano al suo ultimo viaggio,
i bagagli già pronti da tempo, come ogni uomo prudente,
o meglio, il bagaglio, quello consueto, di un semplice o un saggio,
cioè poco o niente
e andrà davvero in un suo luogo o una sua storia
con tutti i libri che la vita gli ha proibito,
con vecchi amici di cui ha perso la memoria,
con l'infinito,
dove anche su quei monti nostri è sempre estate,
ma se uno vuole quell' inverno senza affanni
che scricchiolava in gelo sotto le chiodate scarpe di un tempo,
dei suoi diciottanni,
dei suoi diciottanni...

Francesco Guccini - Van Loon, canzone dedicata al padre

Venezia, lyric by Francesco Guccini

Dipinto di Laura Tedeschi

Venice who dying,
Venice who rests on the sea,
the sweet obsession of his last sad days, Venice sells itself to the tourists, 
who are searching, among the people,  Europe or Orient 
who are watching the smoke or the anger of Porto Marghera rising in the evening.

Stefania was beautiful, Stefania was never hurt, 
but she died in childbirth, screaming and sweating in a bed of a large hospital.
She was twenty, she had a husband, and a ring  in the finger,
His relatives have told me confused, that his breath almost tripped him between her teeth.

Venice is a hotel, San Marco is certanly also the name of a pizzeria,
the gondola is expensive, the gondola is just a nice round of carousel.
Stefania played with me in the empty and idle summer Sundays,
my mother spoke, his mother sold Venice in a shop.


Venice is a dream... of those who you can buy,
but you can not find yourself with the water in the throat, and a pain at the sea level.
The Doge has changed home and,  from a thousand windows, comes only the cry of a newborn baby,
comes only the siren sound of the Mestre's refinery.

Stefania is sinking, Stefania has left something , a gossip newspaper and a rose on her bedside table,
Stefania left a child.
I don't know if  her relatives was really hurt to see her die alone, die murdered in a bed of a large hospital.

Venice is a trick that fills the head only with fatality, a scam that does not know about the rest of the world,
Venice is the people who don't care...
Stefania... and a child, to buy or sell Venice will be his fate,
maybe one day we will be happy to be only distant relatives. 

Francesco Guccini's lyric: Venezia - traduzione di Laura Tedeschi 
 

Venezia che muore, Venezia appoggiata sul
mare, la dolce ossessione degli ultimi suoi giorni tristi, Venezia, la vende 
ai turisti, che cercano in mezzo alla gente l' Europa o l' Oriente, 
che guardano alzarsi alla sera il fumo - o la rabbia - di Porto 
Marghera...

Stefania era bella, Stefania non stava mai male,
è morta di parto gridando in un letto sudato d' un grande ospedale; 
aveva vent' anni, un marito, e l' anello nel dito: 
mi han detto confusi i parenti che quasi il respiro inciampava nei 
denti... 

Venezia è un' albergo, San Marco è senz' altro anche il nome di una 
pizzeria, la gondola costa, la gondola è solo un bel giro di giostra. 
Stefania d' estate giocava con me nelle vuote domeniche d' ozio. 
Mia madre parlava, sua madre vendeva Venezia in negozio.

Venezia è anche un sogno, di quelli che puoi comperare, 
però non ti puoi risvegliare con l' acqua alla gola, e un dolore a 
livello del mare: il Doge ha cambiato di casa e per mille finestre 
c'è solo il vagito di un bimbo che è nato, c'è solo la sirena di 
Mestre...

Stefania affondando, Stefania ha lasciato qualcosa: 
Novella Duemila e una rosa sul suo comodino, Stefania ha lasciato un 
bambino. Non so se ai parenti gli ha fatto davvero del male 
vederla morire ammazzata, morire da sola, in un grande ospedale...

Venezia è un imbroglio che riempie la testa soltanto di fatalità: 
del resto del mondo non sai più una sega, Venezia è la gente che se ne 
frega! Stefania è un bambino, comprare o smerciare Venezia sarà il suo destino: 
può darsi che un giorno saremo contenti di esserne solo lontani parenti... 
 

Francesco Guccini, Venezia