Fabrizio de Andre - Canto del servo pastore

As usually, I would appreciate if somebody could check this. Grazie!

Dove fiorisce il rosmarino c'e' una fontana scura
dove cammina il mio destino c'e' un filo di paura
qual'e la direzione nessuno me lo imparo
qual'e il mio vero nome ancora non lo so

where does the rosemary grow, there is a dark spring
where does my destiny walk there is a thread of fear
nobody will teach me which is the direction
i do not know which is my true name yet

Quando la luna perde la lana e il passero la strada
quando ogni angelo e alla catena ed ogni cane abbaia
prendi la tua tristezza in mano e soffiala nel fiume
vesti di foglie il tuo dolore e coprilo di piume

when the moon loses the wool and the sparrow loses the street
when every angel is in chains and every dog barks
take your sadness in your hand and blow it in the river
dress your pain in leaves and hide it in feather

Sopra ogni cisto da qui al mare c'e un po' dei miei capelli
sopra ogni sughera il disegno di tutti i miei coltelli
l'amore delle case l'amore bianco vestito
io non l'ho mai saputo e non l'ho mai tradito

there is a little of my hair under each rockrose from here to the sea
there is a drawing of all my knives under each cork
the love of houses, the love dressed white
i have never knew and never betrayed

Mio padre un falco mia madre un pagliaio stanno sulla collina
i loro occhi senza fondo seguono la mia luna
notte notte notte sola sola come il mio fuoco
piega la testa sul mio cuore e spegnilo poco a poco

my father is a hawk, my mother is a haystack, they stay over the hill
and they eyes without depth follow my moon
night night night alone alone like my fire(place)
lean your head on my heart and turn it off little by little

Originally Posted by dolcenera

As usually, I would appreciate if somebody could check this. Grazie!

Dove fiorisce il rosmarino c'e' una fontana scura
dove cammina il mio destino c'e' un filo di paura
qual'e la direzione nessuno me lo imparo*
qual'e il mio vero nome ancora non lo so

where does the rosemary grow, there is a dark spring
where does my destiny walk there is a thread of fear
nobody taught me which is the direction
i do not know which is my true name yet

Quando la luna perde la lana e il passero la strada
quando ogni angelo e alla catena ed ogni cane abbaia
prendi la tua tristezza in mano e soffiala nel fiume
vesti di foglie il tuo dolore e coprilo di piume

when the moon loses the wool and the sparrow loses the street
when every angel is in chains and every dog barks
take your sadness in your hand and blow it in the river
dress your pain in leaves and hide it in feather

Sopra** ogni cisto da qui al mare c'e un po' dei miei capelli
sopra ogni sughera il disegno di tutti i miei coltelli
l'amore delle case l'amore bianco vestito
io non l'ho mai saputo e non l'ho mai tradito

there is a little of my hair on each rockrose from here to the sea
there is a drawing of all my knives on each cork
the love of houses, the love dressed white
i never knew it and never betrayed it

Mio padre un falco mia madre un pagliaio stanno sulla collina
i loro occhi senza fondo seguono la mia luna
notte notte notte sola sola come il mio fuoco
piega la testa sul mio cuore e spegnilo poco a poco

my father is a hawk, my mother is a haystack, they stay over the hill
and they eyes without depth follow my moon
night night night alone alone like my fire(place)
lean your head on my heart and turn it off little by little

*imparo - passato remoto of "imparare"
**sopra = on, above

Grazie!

Originally Posted by dolcenera View Post
As usually, I would appreciate if somebody could check this. Grazie!

nice translation, dolcenera; I will make a few corrections and suggestions for the english. In parentheses are alternative interpretations; in brackets are what I judge is implied in the Italian but needs mentioning in the english. welcome additional ideas.

Dove fiorisce il rosmarino c'e' una fontana scura
dove cammina il mio destino c'e' un filo di paura
qual'e la direzione nessuno me lo imparò
qual'e il mio vero nome ancora non lo so

where rosemary grows (blooms), there is a dark spring
where my destiny walks, there is a thread of fear
which is the [right] direction, nobody [ever] taught me
what is my true name, I still don't know

Quando la luna perde la lana e il passero la strada
quando ogni angelo è alla catena ed ogni cane abbaia
prendi la tua tristezza in mano e soffiala nel fiume
vesti di foglie il tuo dolore e coprilo di piume

when the moon loses the wool and the sparrow [loses] the street
when every angel is in chains and every dog barks
take your sadness in hand and blow it into the river
dress your pain in leaves and hide it in feathers

Sopra** ogni cisto da qui al mare c'e un po' dei miei capelli
sopra ogni sughera il disegno di tutti i miei coltelli
l'amore delle case l'amore bianco vestito
io non l'ho mai saputo e non l'ho mai tradito

on every rockrose from here to the sea, there is a little of my hair
on every cork tree, [there is] a drawing (etching?) of (from?) all of my knives
the love of houses, the love dressed in white
i've never known it and I've never betrayed it

Mio padre un falco mia madre un pagliaio stanno sulla collina
i loro occhi senza fondo seguono la mia luna
notte notte notte sola sola come il mio fuoco
piega la testa sul mio cuore e spegnilo poco a poco

my father a hawk, my mother a haystack, they stand on the hill
their eyes without depth(i.e. bottomless?) follow my moon
night night, alone; alone like my fire(place)*
lean your head on my heart and put it out little by little

*-dolcenera's original interpretation

thank you, Ka!! De Andre is my favourite but he is exceptionally hard to translate, and even so to do it beautifully and gracefully is next to impossible.

I asked a young Italian friend what "quando la luna perde la lana" meant, and
he told me that it was not an idiom as far as he knew, just poetry. After a little thought I think I understand the metaphor: the moon being an off white like wool "looses" that wool as the phases change and it gets darker and darker.
Something like the ball on a spinning wheel gets smaller and smaller as a thread is made. And then it is pitch black, and that metaphor has made us
ready to hear the barking of all the dogs, and to feel existentially alone as the
angels are all bound in chains. No wonder so many Italians consider him a poet, while typicvally modest of himself, DeAndre' didn't claim that title so overtly, but described himself as something like a poet (in one excerpt of an interview I read). Bella traduzione che lei ha fatta dolcenera and the suggestions for changes seem to make for improvements too.

grazie memphisto!