raggi di voce nel silenzio

ripensando a domenica, alle nostre voci mescolate, alle stecche ed alle note prese giuste o un po' troppo su o un po' troppo giù.
ed alex che è "io suono ma tu canti" e io che non c'arrivo (e non c'arriverò mai, cari miei, sono solo un misero contralto),
ed elena che canticchia sottovoce con gli occhi dolci di luce
e silvia che non ha voglia di andar via
e bea che anticipa sul tempo
e raffaella che si accoccola al mio fianco in una carezza
e franco che quando suona m'innamora ogni volta

ed è che noi, tutti insieme, siamo belli.
siamo proprio belli.

sorridi, bambina, c'è uno sprazzo di sole.


The Boxer

I am just a poor boy.
Though my story's seldom told,
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocket full of mumbles, Such are promises
All lies and jests
Still a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest.

When I left my home
And my family,
I was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers
In the quiet of the railway station,
Running scared,
Laying low,
Seeking out the poorer quarters
Where the ragged people go
Looking for the places
Only they would know

Asking only workman's wages
I come looking for a job,
But I get no offers,
Just a come-on from the whores
On Seventh Avenue
I do declare,
There were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there.

Then I'm laying out my winter clothes
And wishing I was gone,
Going home
Where the New York City winters
Aren't bleeding me,
Leading me,
Going home.

In the clearing stands a boxer,
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev'ry glove that laid him down
And cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame,
"I am leaving, I am leaving."
But the fighter still remains