Hotel California (Eagles)

On a dark desert highway, cool wind in my hair
Warm smell of colitas, rising up through the air
Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light
My head grew heavy and my sight grew dim
I had to stop for the night
There she stood in the doorway;
I heard the mission bell
And I was thinking to myself,
’this could be heaven or this could be hell’
Then she lit up a candle and she showed me the way
There were voices down the corridor,
I thought I heard them say...

Welcome to the hotel california
Such a lovely place
Such a lovely face
Plenty of room at the hotel california
Any time of year, you can find it here

Her mind is tiffany-twisted, she got the mercedes bends
She got a lot of pretty, pretty boys, that she calls friends
How they dance in the courtyard, sweet summer sweat.
Some dance to remember, some dance to forget

So I called up the captain,
’please bring me my wine’
He said, ’we haven’t had that spirit here since nineteen sixty nine’
And still those voices are calling from far away,
Wake you up in the middle of the night
Just to hear them say...

Welcome to the hotel california
Such a lovely place
Such a lovely face
They livin’ it up at the hotel california
What a nice surprise, bring your alibis

Mirrors on the ceiling,
The pink champagne on ice
And she said ’we are all just prisoners here, of our own device’
And in the master’s chambers,
They gathered for the feast
The stab it with their steely knives,
But they just can’t kill the beast

Last thing I remember, I was
Running for the door
I had to find the passage back
To the place I was before
’relax,’ said the night man,
We are programmed to receive.
You can checkout any time you like,
But you can never leave!

Funeral Blues

Fermate tutti gli orologi, isolate il telefono,
fate tacere il cane con un osso succulento,
chiudete i pianoforti, e tra un rullio smorzato
portate fuori il feretro, si accostino i dolenti.

Incrocino aeroplani lamentosi lassù
e scrivano sul cielo il messaggio Lui è Morto,
allacciate nastri di crespo al collo bianco dei piccioni,
i vigili si mettano guanti di tela nera.

Lui era il mio Nord, il mio Sud, il mio Est ed il mio Ovest,
la mia settimana di lavoro e il mio riposo la domenica,
il mio mezzodì, la mezzanotte, la mia lingua, il mio canto;
pensavo che l'amore fosse eterno: e avevo torto.

Non servono più le stelle: spegnetele anche tutte;
imballate la luna, smontate pure il sole;
svuotatemi l'oceano e sradicate il bosco;
perché oramai più nulla può servire.

(W.H.Auden)

La più toccante delle liriche sulla morte, il più vero e più intimo grido disperato di addio che sia mai stato scritto.