Ligurian:
Quarchidun monta e scae

Quarchidun monta e scae, quande l’é neutte. Into scuo nisciun no s’incalla à sciortî, à ammiâ e scae scue, co-e seu ringhee marse e e stelle freide in erto appissue, comme di pontaieu gianchi, che ne veuan passâ o cheu. Quarchidun monta e scae inta neutte, con un passo lento o se rebella verso e stelle gianche; tutte e neutte o se parte da-o fondo neigro de scae, ch’o no se vedde e o vëgne sciù, ma nisciun no gh’à cheu de ammiâ chi o segge à quell’oa, che nisciuña persoña säia e saña a l’anieiva sciù pe-e scae. Ognidun o l’à poia che lê o ghe picche da-a pòrta; e cöse porriëscimo dîghe, s’o ne picchesse da-a pòrta? Cöse diëscimo à nòstro descarrego? Che semmo stæti zoeni e oua no ô semmo ciù? Che emmo vosciuo ben à quarchidun e oua no ghe voemmo ciù? Che emmo lasciou moî i mòrti e no î emmo posciui trategnî con niatri? Ghe doviëscimo fòscia dâ conto di anni asgreiæ, ciammâ perdon pe-a luña ch’a se bolla in mâ, che mai a se vira inderê à ammiâ o tempo ch’o l’é passou, e che tutte e vòtte a l’é unn’atra, ma delongo pægia? A vegia de l’urtimo cian a l’ea mòrta da trei giorni into seu letto; e fiña o seu canäio o l’é stæto ammassou inta seu gaggetta. A figgia drogâ ch’a reçeiveiva e casañe, a-o quarto, l’an attrovâ stecchia lê ascì. E quarchedun monta e scae de neutte; tutti stemmo in oegion à sentî quand’o passa, ma no se sente ninte: gh’é quarchidun ch’o dixe de sentî un strisciâ leppegoso comme de unna gròssa lumassa, quarchedun o borbonâ comme de un moscon; ma mi no ò mai sentio ninte. Oua ô semmo che vegnià feua o sòlito pappagaggio da televixon, ò di giornali ò de facebook, ch’o ne vegnià à dî che i vëi mostri semmo niatri, che i vëi mostri son l’indifferensa verso l’erlia e a solitæ da veggiaia, verso o desaxo di zoeni, l’ia e o desprexo verso a dònna, l’indifferensa verso l’indifferensa. Ô semmo. Ô semmo che i vëi mostri semmo niatri, son quelli. Ma intanto emmo poia.

English translation:
Someone is climbing the stairs

Someone is climbing the stairs, at night. In the dark no one dares go out, to look at the dark stairs, with their rotten railings and the cold stars up high, sharp-pointed, like white pins, wanting to pierce our hearts. Someone is climbing the stairs at night, with a slow step dragging himself toward the white stars; every night he sets off from the black bottom of the stairs, which can’t be seen, and climbs, but no one has the courage to look at who it is at that hour, when no serious, sane person would be going up the stairs. Everyone fears he will knock at the door; and what could we say to him, if he knocked at our door? What would we say in our defense? That we were young and now we are no longer? That we loved someone and now we love them no more? That we let the dead die and could not keep them with us? Should we perhaps account to him for the wasted years, beg pardon for the moon that plunges into the sea, that never turns back to look at the time gone by, and that each time is another, yet always the same? The old woman on the top floor had been dead three days in her bed; and even her canary had been killed in its cage. The junkie girl who received clients, on the fourth floor, they found her stone dead too. And someone is climbing the stairs at night; we all stay listening to hear when he passes, but nothing is heard; there are those who say they hear a slimy slithering as of a big slug, others as of the buzzing of a blowfly; but I have never heard anything. Now we know the usual parrot on television, or in the newspapers, or on facebook, will come out to tell us that the real monsters are us, that the real monsters are indifference toward the anguish and the solitude of old age, toward the unease of the young, hatred and contempt toward women, indifference toward indifference. We know it. We know that the real monsters are us, are those people. But meanwhile we are afraid.