Negri, Ada: The street urchin (Birichino di strada in English)
Birichino di strada (Italian)Quando lo vedo per la via fangosa Passar sucido e bello, Colla giacchetta tutta in un brandello, Le scarpe rotte e l’aria capricciosa,
Quando il vedo fra i carri o sul selciato Coi calzoncini a brani, Gettare i sassi nelle gambe ai cani, Gií ladro, gií corrotto e gií sfrontato;
Quando lo vedo ridere e saltare, Povero fior di spina, E penso che sua madre è all’officina, Vuoto il tugurio e il padre al cellulare,
Un’angoscia per lui dentro mi serra; E dico: “Che farai Tu che stracciato ed ignorante vai Senz’appoggio ne guida sulla terra?…
De la capanna garrulo usignolo, Che sarai fra vent’anni? Vile e perverso spacciator d’inganni, Operaio solerte, o borsaiuolo?
L’onesta blusa avrai del manovale, O quella del forzato? Ti rivedrò bracciante o condannato, Sul lavoro, in prigione, o all’ospedale?…,,
… Ed ecco, vorrei scender ne la via E stringerlo sul core, In un supremo abbraccio di dolore, Di pietí , di tristezza e d’agonia;
Tutti i miei baci dargli in un istante Sulla bocca e sul petto, E singhiozzargli con fraterno affetto Queste parole soffocate e sante:
“Anch’io vissi nel lutto e nelle pene, Anch’io son fior di spina; E l’ebbi anch’io la madre all’officina, E anch’io seppi il dolor… ti voglio bene.,,
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The street urchin (English)When in the muddy street, I see him running, His little shoes all worn, His trousers ragged and his jacket torn, His handsome face most mischievous and cunning;
And when I see him ‘mid the surging eddy Of carts, he steals or begs, Now deftly throwing stones at poor curs’ legs, Bold and corrupt, a youthful thief already;
And when I see him laugh, I can’t help thinking : ”His mother is all day There in the mill; in prison his father –” nay, Poor flower he of thorns!” –”My heart is sinking
Within me, with anxiety I wonder: ”What will become of thee, Without a guide on this tempestuous sea Of life, forlorn and ignorant? I wonder
What thou wilt be and what will be thy station Some twenty years from now; An honest workman with a sunburnt brow? A useful member of our struggling nation?
The labourer’s honest shirt shall thou be wearing Or convict’s garb! Or shall I see thee wretched at the hospital, At work, in prison, a vagabond wayfaring?”
And lo! Across the street I would run over And in supreme distress, In agony, in pity I would press Him to my heart; with kisses I would cover
His mouth, his forehead; close beside him kneeling, Would whisper in his ears, Choked by compassion’s quickly rising tears, These sacred words, full of a sister’s feeling:
“I too was born ‘mong thorns, the sky above me, My mother too for me Was working hard there in the factory, I know what want and suffering mean –” I love thee.”
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