When I was young, a
kid, a kid-a, nothing more,
I was looking at this Serra as
a marmelade-gelatine shiit.
A long tongue through my beat.
A swan without wings, mute,
stopped in the middle of my garden.
Now that I’m older, now that
the green leaves, failed down, mixed
with beer, made my crown,
now I see this Serra
just as stage. An old, brown scenario.
And I feel much stronger.
I feel. I twang,
that I can do it.
I can play it.
E chi sono 'sti tipi? Dei biellesi, degli amanti del biellese, dei transitati nelle nostre terre o Serra non è la nostra Serra?