Song in the World.
My World, although 'the speech is vain
A fatal wounds
What in your beautiful body is' thick
pleases me I see at least that 'what my complaints
Sian Hope' the River Tiber and the Seine, where the Tigers
And sadly et serious now sit.
Rectors of the world, I crave
That money that they carried to power
you turn your dilecta almo world.
see, powerful rude,
What economic cause that unjust war;
And your heart that ndura and greenhouse
superb Mars et fierce,
Open lovingly articulated ;
che'l Oh my muse is true, that I
hand here, and hence for each hearing.
which you place in Fortuna in the hand brake
De
the beautiful lands of anything that seems to pity you string
What fans here so many pilgrims bombs?
Why the white houses of our own blood
dipingon?
compartment error flatters you:
Just you see, and think to see much, that my heart
money market looking for, or stolen. What more
'among the people possesses
He is more' entangled by his enemies. O
deluge gathered
What strange
rains to inundate our sweet fields!
While your hands
This happens to us, or who will there to save us?
Ben Provide Nature to our World,
When we gave land to work
And food to eat;
Alas, blind desire for power has run
then wits
à Che'l healthy body made ill.
O on the thrones of power
Fairs wild and illiterate
S'annidan you 'which always honest groans:
And it is from these seeds
More' for the honor that 'the people without law
relentless combat other people
As long as the deeds they do not languish
When that is turned
tired and no longer drinks' the earth's blood.
that Bush did not say nothing to each shore
He made the herbs blood of their veins
its iron began.
Now it seems, I do not know that stars malignant
What 's in heaven hate n'aggia:
Also he is in power.
Your stupidity, Americans
Guasta the world the most 'beautiful parts. What
fault, which court or what destiny
bother near
Poor et Afflict the fortunes and scattered
stalk, and 'n the sidelines looking for native
et
like to pour' the blood price et bombs?
I speak to tell the truth,
not out of hatred for others or for contempt. Neither
v'accorgete anchor for so many trials
Ch'alzando the deception of the American finger jokes with death? Almost worse is
's follow, in my opinion, that' the damage;
Ma 's their blood rains
Piu' wide, you will pay some one bomb.
For a few hours on their third
think, will see how
Tien Tien others who loved himself so to 'vile.
Latin blood kind,
remove from yourself these harmful burdens;
not make an idol of a name
A stupid person:
What 's de furor over there', ignorant people
not exceed your intellect
shame is ours, not that there scanned.
He is not a ground that he toccaron before? That was not the
their nest
Where they were nourished by it 'gently?
this is not the country in which I trust,
Mother benign, devout Italy, which covers a
et l'my parents?
By God, this mind
sometimes move you, and look with pity
The tears of grieving people,
that for you can not find rest in God alone
And hopefully, et
while for you to show any sign of pity, Irene
Mars will take up arms against
, et FIA 's short Combated:
What the old-fashioned values of peace
It's Italy, we hope, is not yet dead.
Lords of the world, targeted as 'time flies,
Et' like life
Flees, et death is upon the back.
You are now in power, think of those who die: That the soul
them naked and alone
torn get to that uncertain road.
Keeping it please put this valley
June 'hatred et anger,
Twenty opposed to the good life;
And what others pain
With its acts creates and maintains
O od'ingegno
hand in some beautiful farm ,
In some honesto study convert:
Cosi 'down here' boasts,
And the earth is not dead people.
song, I t'ammonisco
kindly tell what your reason, among people
Why should you fallow ir,
And the cravings are full already
de l'et ancient American custom bad
always the enemy of the truth.
will not try your luck
only between 'magnanimous few who' like the truth. So
'et be screaming without fear - Who reassures me?
I'vo crying Peace, peace, peace. -
ispiratacopiata freely from the song of Rerum CXXVIII Vulgarium Fragmenta of Francesco Petrarca.
I have spun-mail.
and I cry, PEACE, PEACE, PEACE!
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