Learn Italian With Geolier with these 11 Song Recommendations (Full Translations Included!)

Chiagne literally means cry in Neapolitan, and this passionate duet turns that single word into a roller-coaster of feelings. Geolier and Lazza trade verses in a mix of Italian and Neapolitan, painting the picture of two ex-lovers who still circle around each other’s memories. He stares at the sea that is no longer blue without her, she hides her pain behind excuses, and both wonder why the other is crying when, deep down, they know the hurt is mutual. The song captures that bittersweet limbo after a breakup where blame shifts back and forth, nights are haunted by dreams of the past, and every small detail — from a Just Eat dinner to an old CD thrown out a car window — reminds them of what they once had.

Despite the melancholy, the beat produced by Takagi & Ketra keeps the track vibrant, making the sadness feel cinematic rather than crushing. The constant question “Ma perché piangi?” (Why are you crying?) becomes almost ironic: each singer points the finger while secretly hoping for reconciliation. In the end, Chiagne celebrates vulnerability, showing that even when love seems finished, the tears prove it still matters. Listeners are left swaying between heartbreak and hope, right where the artists want them — feeling every note and every sigh.

"POCO/TROPPO" ("Little/Too Much") is Geolier's portrait of street life in the poorer parts of Naples, rapped in Neapolitan dialect. The title captures the song's central tension: down here, you either have too little or too much, and never anything steady in between.

The verses move through the small, hard rules of that world: robberies planned around a bank's routine, a diamond that's worth less than it looks, a street sweeper turned lookout, a mother's fear of raising kids in "a jungle." Money, guns and jail time show up constantly, but the song keeps circling back to something less material: a promise kept, or broken.

The hook makes that explicit: "a promise is worth much more than all the gold I'd want for myself." For Geolier, loyalty is the one currency that still means something when everything else is scarce or excessive. The closing lines ask who will actually sink or swim alongside him, since down here everyone ultimately looks out for their own.

The title means "I wanted to act tough," and the song is a look back at what that cost. Geolier keeps returning to the same admission: he pushed too hard, he overdid it, and now he is trying to work out who he actually is underneath it.

Most of the song is about loyalty. He talks about brothers who do not talk but act, about a friend who pawned his gold to help, about nobody lending a hand back when they had nothing and everyone inviting them to dinner now that they are no longer hungry. That contrast is the heart of it: the same people who were absent are suddenly close, and he has not forgotten which was which.

Money shows up constantly, and every time he pushes it away. Red cars do not give you worth. He buys a watch and then pulls his hoodie over it. He swears he does not care about the money, and what he wants instead is to leave a mark with the one life he has.

There is guilt running underneath. He wonders what is left if mercy runs out, he prays to be forgiven, he says he cannot really know himself deep down and that maybe there is another person under there. The repeated line about wanting to know whether his own suffering would take someone else's pain away is the most honest moment in the song.

The recurring image of falling asleep at four on a couch anchors all of it. That is where he came from, and the song keeps circling back to it rather than to anything he has now.

Geolier writes the whole first half in Neapolitan, and he spends it stacking up metaphors for one woman until they get strange enough to stick. She is “Tu sî 'na pistola sempe carica e pronta” (You're a pistol, always loaded and ready), then “Tu sî 'nu palazzo ca c''o sole fa ombra” (You're a building that casts a shadow in the sun), then a life ring that will not go under if you fall in. He is also honest that none of it is easy. “Essere nuje è complicato” (Being us is complicated), he says, and “Nuje cercamm sulamente 'o bene 'nt'ô male” (We only look for the good inside the bad), which is a fairly bleak way to describe a love song. Then the title lands in the chorus: “E si torna 'o maletiempo / Tu sî ll'arcobaleno” (And if the bad weather comes back / You are the rainbow).

Anuel AA takes the second verse in Spanish and arrives at the same idea from Puerto Rico. He quotes scripture at her, “El amor todo lo soporta, como dice la Biblia” (Love bears all things, as the Bible says), and separates the people who show up in good weather from the ones who stay: “Pero en los malos tiempo' es que vemo' quién es quién” (But in the bad times is when we see who is who). He signs off with “Tú y yo y mi pistola, los tres junto' por siempre” (You and me and my pistol, the three of us together forever), which is either very romantic or slightly worrying depending on the day.

Como Te catapults us into a hyper-kinetic world where Naples meets Medellín and swagger is the only currency. Geolier and Emis Killa juggle Neapolitan, Spanish, and Italian slang as they brag about stuffed cash closets, Rolexes, Lamborghinis, and million-euro paydays. Amid the flashing luxury, the hook repeats a simple question – Escúchame, ¿cómo te llama? – reminding us that even the biggest bosses still look for recognition and a name. Their verses paint the life of a street-made “capo”: fearless, armed, and always answering the call of the next deal, yet pointedly ignoring worried phone calls from mama.

Behind the bravado lies a darker truth. References to Pablo Escobar’s “plata o plomo,” the constant talk of guns, and the absence of real love (“cento pute nell’iPhone, nessuna nel corazón”) hint at the emptiness that shadows fast money. It is a celebration of hustle and status, but also a cautionary snapshot of never-ending hunger, restless nights, and fleeting loyalty. "Como Te" ultimately feels like a party track with an aftertaste of danger: exhilarating, addictive, and just a little bit tragic.

It opens with him holding up a phone: "Miettete in posa, 'stu viento te tocca, te faccio 'na foto" (Pose for me, the wind's on you, I'll take a pic). By the chorus the picture is gone and so is she: "Nn'ce sta nemmeno 'na fotografia" (There isn't even a photo). That is the problem Geolier keeps circling. He has no proof any of it happened, so the only thing left to make is the song itself: "E ancora l'aggi''a fà 'na canzone pe t'arricurdà" (And I still need to write a song to remind you).

Then he turns the photo around and it stops being a keepsake. "Pe'tté so' sulo 'na fotografia" (To you I'm just a photo) is the line the whole thing was built toward, and he follows it with a small nasty question: "Si, quanno 'a straccio, lieve addò stongo i'?" (If I rip it up, will it drift to where I am?). The details in between are what make it land. The two of them going quiet on purpose, "Nuje ce mettimmo offline, pe nun rispunnere a nisciuno" (We go offline just so we won't answer anybody). The admission at the end that the weather was never the problem: "Però 'o sole ce steva / Ero i' ca nn''o vedevo" (But the sun was there / I was the one who couldn't see it). He sings all of it in Neapolitan, which is why the words on the page look so little like the Italian you have been studying.

Geolier sings this one in Neapolitan, and it is a love song built almost entirely out of asking.

The verses are him at the door. She always says the same thing, always says no, and when he calls she snaps back with "Che vuò?" He admits the sharpness is part of why he wants her more. So he asks again: not tonight, not this time, come over for a bit and say what is on your mind. He knows what he is walking into. He calls the love difficult, says he has no limits with her and cannot explain why, and he is honest that he cannot promise she will stay.

Then the chorus turns the question around. Instead of asking what she does to him, he asks what she does without him. What do you do when you miss me. When the phone rings and you do not pick up. When you are without me.

The last verse is the quiet part. He knows it does not look like much from the outside, but she is the dearest thing he has. She calls every evening, then takes it badly when he gets dressed and leaves. She tells him she is fine and asks who else touches her the way he does. And he says the thing that explains the whole song: he never wanted a girl who does as she is told. She is headstrong, she goes her own way, and to him that means everything is exactly where it should be.

Geolier spends the whole song on one image and never lets go of it: love as a wound that refuses to scar over. "I teng sul na ferit ca si ttu" (I've only got one wound, and that's you), he sings, and "E nun se chiur maje" (And it never heals) comes back so often it stops being a line and turns into part of the beat. The verses stay small and domestic. "Nun o saje quante vot' nun torn' e me tremman' e man" (You don't know how many times I stay away and my hands shake). "Crirem quand e lacrime me sorridon" (We laugh when my tears smile). The piano underneath stays quiet enough that you hear every crack in the Neapolitan.

The title is the argument. "Maje pe semp' nuje" (Never forever us) refuses the thing love songs normally promise, and then the next line walks it straight back with "Si semp' tu" (It's always you). The bluntest moment is "Me faje l'effett e na pistola" (You hit me like a pistol). He knows how he sounds too, which is why "Certe ccose nun me dicere mai cchiu" (Don't ever tell me some things again) arrives as an order rather than a plea.

Geolier opens by admitting the whole thing was a bad idea, and that she knew it too: "Tu 'o sapive che nun ero niente 'e bbuono" (You knew I was no good), "Ma 'o vulive vedé tu cu ll'uocchie tuoje" (But you wanted to see it with your own eyes). He sings his half in Neapolitan, which makes the resignation sound almost domestic. His theory of the world turns up a few lines later and it is bleak and funny at the same time: "Pecché na cosa, quanno è brutta, resta, ma, si è bella, nun dura" (Because a thing, when it is bad, stays, but if it is beautiful, it does not last). The best description of the two of them is three words long, "Simmo ddoje disastre" (We are two disasters), and it lands immediately after he has called them "ddoje cullane d'oro bianco" (two white gold chains). Expensive, and going nowhere.

The chorus is where the title arrives. He is standing downstairs in the rain with no keys: "Baby, ti aspetto giù" (Baby, I am waiting for you downstairs), "Finché avrai le idee chiare" (Until you know what you want). Then comes the line that explains his whole defensive crouch: "Quindi penzo sempe a male 'e ll'ate accussì nun me sbaglio" (So I always think the worst of others, that way I am never wrong). Lazza takes the second half in standard Italian and pushes harder, offering "Per esser libero, ti uccido, Spartaco" (To be free, I kill you, Spartacus) and a riddle in which nobody can warn anybody: "Manca solo un muto dire a un sordo che c'è un cieco che li spia" (All that is missing is a mute telling a deaf man a blind man is watching them). Nothing gets resolved by the end, which suits it: "So che a breve mi lascerai solo, ma non ora, non ora" (I know you will leave me alone soon, but not now, not now).

Geolier sings almost all of this in Neapolitan, and he keeps circling one idea: two people who cannot be together and cannot leave either. The chorus says it with no softening, "T'annammure pecché nn'vuò stà tu sola / Ma staje sola pure si staje cu'mmé" ("You fall in love 'cause you don't wanna be alone / But you're alone even when you're with me"). Every tender thing in the song comes with a catch attached. A hug is a burn, "N'abbraccio brucia 'e mmane" ("A hug burns my hands"), and then a restraint, "Si ogne abbraccio è na catena a ll'anema?" ("If every hug is a chain on the soul?"). Even the love-making gets called a war: "Facimmo ammore, ma è na guerra o c'assumiglia" ("We make love, but it's a war or something close").

The title is what he decides to do about it. Writing the last poem is meant to be the way out: put her on paper and close the notebook. Ultimo takes the bridge in standard Italian and says why that plan failed, "Pensavo che così non ti scordavi me, ma io scordavo te" ("I thought that way you wouldn't forget me, but I forgot you"). The poem was supposed to keep her and it erased her instead, "una finta verità che mi brucia ma guarisce il cuore" ("a fake truth that burns me but heals the heart"). Then the chorus comes back one more time, so the poem changed nothing.

Geolier takes Maradona's nickname for the title, then spends the song measuring how far a kid from Naples has actually travelled. The distances are literal. "Sto arapenno società mentre l'aereo arape 'o flap" (I'm opening a company while the plane opens its flaps), "Duemila piede d'altezza, pe certezza, 'o capitano" (Two thousand feet high, for sure, the captain). Money shows up and he turns it straight into a joke about what it does to people: "Sorde rendono cchiù chiatte, a me m'hanno reso arrogante" (Money makes people fatter, but it made me arrogant). Then he shrugs the whole thing off with "Comme songo scemo, spengo pure 'e sorde" (As stupid as I am, I even spend the money), which is funnier than it needs to be.

The hook is where the flexing goes sideways. "Me so' addurmuto a Napule 'ncopp'o diretto" (I fell asleep in Naples on the direct train), and he wakes up somewhere he cannot read the name of: "E 'o nomme d''a città addò vaco nn'saccio 'mme se legge" (And I don't even know how to read the name of the city I'm going to). The Huracán at three hundred in the corners, the fools he has no time for, the women who "se spogliano e se vestono subito" (undress and dress immediately), all of it goes past at that same blurred speed and none of it settles. What stays is the ambition, "Tre penziere e tu 'a quart, aggi''a addiventà leggenda" (Three thoughts and you're the fourth, I have to become a legend), plus one quiet line where even the weather has stopped working the normal way round: "In stanza chiove e stongo cchiù allegro" (In the room it rains and I'm happier). He sings every bit of it in Neapolitan, including the part where he claims a continent: "Songo America e pare ca primma c'ascivo" (I am America and it seems that before I existed).