Confessioni di un malandrino traducción al Inglés

I like walking uncombed,
With his head on his shoulders like a lamp
So I enjoy illuminating
Your autumn without feathers.

I like it to hail on my face
The thick stone-throwing of injury,
I'm just lurking to feel alive
To the shell of my hair.

And that pond comes back to my mind
That the reeds and the moss have submerged
And mine who don't know they have
A son who composes verses;

But they love me like the fields
To the skin and the seasonal rain,
It will be rare that those who offend me
Scampi at the tips of the pitchfork.

Poor peasant parents,
You have certainly grown old and still fear
The Lord of heaven and the marshes,
Parents you will never understand

That your son has become today
The first among the poets of the country
And now with the painted shoes
And with the cylinder on his head he walks.

But the frenzy survives in him
Of an old country thief
And to every butcher shop
The cow bows her companion.

And when he meets a coachman
His birthstone comes to mind
And he would like the nag's tail
Regger as a wedding train.

I love my country
Although plagued with rusty trunks
I love the dirty snouts of pigs
And the toads in the shade sighing.

I am sick with childhood and with memories
And of fresh April twilights,
It almost looks like the maple is bending
To warm up and then sleep.

From the nest of that tree, the eggs
To steal, I climbed to the top
But it will always be her new hair
And its rind lasts as before;

And you my dear old dog friend,
Dim and blind old age made you
And turn low-tail in the courtyard
Unaware of the barn doors.

I love my brat thefts
When I used to steal some bread from the house
And we ate like two brothers
One crumb to the man and one to the dog.

I haven't changed
The heart and thoughts are the same,
On the magnificent carpet of verses
I want to tell you something that touches you.

Good night at the crescent moon
Yes quiet while the air turns brown,
From my window I want to scream
Against the disk of the moon.

The night is so clear,
Here maybe even dying doesn't hurt,
What does it matter if my spirit is perverse
And a lantern hangs from my back.

O decrepit and good-natured Pegasus,
Your gallop is now aimless,
I came as a lonely teacher
And I sing and celebrate only mice.

From my head like ripe grapes
The mad wine of the hair drips,
I want to be a yellow veil
It swells towards a nameless country.