In Volterra, a large asylum was built.
It was so large that to fill it completely
they had to travel Italy far and wide
to find an equally large number of madmen.

And women and young boys were fine too;
there were pavilions built specially for them.
And when all those madmen were there,
in my city everyone was happy,
even the Mayor and the Bank President.

Then, however, there was an epidemic of cures
and the madmen all disappeared.
Not a single one could be found
even if you traveled all of Italy.
And not even afterwards, once the epidemic had passed,
were any more to be found. Finished,
gone, all cured.

So the asylum remained empty.
But every year there is always someone
who hopes the epidemic will end.
But I know it well, it won’t end.