WHEN THE MUSIC BECOME POETRY – Angelo Branduardi: Welcome, my woman

WELCOME, MY WOMAN Welcome to my woman, welcome to my home, if you are tired now rests I’ll give you a drink. Welcome, my woman, welcome to my home, I will give you bread and roses and with me you’ll laugh. Welcome to my woman, welcome to my home, if you’re tired now rests welcome my woman. (Angelo Branduardi) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h7qdDCi0kw8

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YOU ARE MY SLAVERY, YOU ARE MY FREEDOM – Poetry, by Nazim Hikmet

YOU ARE MY SLAVERY, YOU ARE MY FREEDOM You are my slave, you are my freedom, You are my flesh burning as the naked flesh of the summer nights. You are my home you, with green highlights of your eyes you, high and victorious. You are my nostalgia of knowing how inaccessible at the very moment when I grab you. …

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WHEN THE MUSIC BECOMES POETRY – Gino Paoli: The sky in a room

When you’re here with me, this room has no walls but trees, infinite trees. When you’re here with me, this purple ceiling, no, no longer exists. I see the sky above us, that we stay here, abandoned, as if, if there was nothing left, nothing left in the world. Harmonious sounds, like an organ that vibrates for you and for …

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FAREWELL – Poetry by Nazim Hikmet

The man says to the woman I love, and as if I hold in my palm heart, like broken glass, which I bloodied the fingers, when he broke madly. The man says to the woman I love, and as with the depth of kilometers, with the immensity of kilometers, one hundred percent, a thousand percent, one hundred times the infinitely …

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WHEN THE MUSIC BECOMES POETRY – Georges Brassens: Les amoureux des bancs publics

Les gens qui voient de travers, pensent que les bancs verts qu’on voit sur les trottoirs, sont faits pour les impotents ou les ventripotents, mais c’est une absurdité. Car à la vérité, ils sont là c’est notoire, pour accueillir quelque temps les amours débutants. Les amoureux qui s’bécott’nt sur les bancs publics, en s’fouttant pas mal du regard oblique des …

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WHEN THE MUSIC BECOMES POETRY – Jacques Brel: Ne me quitte pas

Ne me quitte pas. Il faut oublier, tout peut s’oublier qui s’enfuit déjà. Oublier le temps des malentendus, et le temps perdu. A savoir comment, oublier ces heures qui tuaient parfois. A coups de pourquoi, le cÅ“ur du bonheur. Ne me quitte pas. Moi je t’offrirai des perles de pluie, venues de pays ou il ne pleut pas. Je creuserai …

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