Ligurian:
Aspëtâ o Re

Ma comme se fa à stâ inte unna cà de coscì, con un ballou pin de ravatti, de strasse, de chen e de gatti, de röba desteisa, miande e scappin missi à sciugâ, che no se peu mesciâseghe; ma comme se fa, co-e gente ch’a se fa da mangiâ, ch’a raxoña di fæti seu, ch’a rattella, comme se nisciun no î stesse à sentî. Dixe: perché i sciti son piccinetti, no gh’é de pòsto pe fâ ninte e beseugna anâ de feua, in sciô ballou. Ma a ve ô pâ unna raxon? Ma anævene, cangiæ de cà. Ch’anæ via, se chì no gh’é de pòsto: ninte, no â veuan accapî. Ghe vegniemo vegi e maròtti, inte sto pòsto, ghe faiemo i fonzi, inte sta meza luxe, inta spussa de cöi da scâ, e a caccà di figgeu piccin che cianze à tutt’oe. Gh’é quello vegio, omai feua de cascia, ch’o l’aspeta assettou in sciô ballou, ch’o passe o Re; ma quæ Re, ghe diggo. O Re no ghe l’emmo ciù da pe coscì. “E fòscia, atroché se ghe l’emmo – o dixe – E un bello giorno o passià de de chì; i Re gian delongo, e pe de chì o ghe dovià passâ. I Re no van mai via, te ô fan credde, magara, ma no se ne van; stan lì inte l’ombra, t’aspetan de derê à unna pòrta, inte un armäio, a-o scuo, tanto che e stelle passan cian cianin pe-o çê, se en stan in sce unna banchiña de l’allea. Dapeu, quande meno ti ghe pensi, sciòrtan feua e tutti ghe ciòccan de moen, seunnan e trombe, passa e majorettes in paradda. E ti ti gh’arresti lì comme un scemmo, piggiou a-a cheita, che no ti sæ cöse dî. Quande figgeu, aspëtavimo ch’o passesse da via Garibaldi, e l’emmo aspëtou mai tanto, mai tanto, ma o no l’é passou; n’an dito ch’o l’aiva cangiou de stradda à l’urtimo momento. Mi aspëtava lì con un masso de scioe in man, ma lê o no l’é passou. Ma i Re no s’ascòrdan, no s’ascòrdan mai ninte: mi ô sò che lê o sa ch’o l’à con mi st’eubrigaçion e un bello giorno o vegnià, o passià de de chì, e mi porriò dâghe o seu massetto de scioe, che no gh’ò posciuo dâghelo tanti anni fa.”

English translation:
Waiting for the King

But how can anyone live in a house like this, with a balcony full of odds and ends, of rags, of dogs and cats, of laundry hung out, underpants and socks left to dry, so that you can’t move; but how can it be done, with people cooking, talking about their own affairs, quarrelling, as if no one were listening to them. They say: because the flats are small, there’s no room to do anything and you have to go outside, onto the balcony. But does that seem like a reason to you? Then go away, move house. Go away, if there’s no room here: nothing, they refuse to understand. We’ll grow old and ill in this place, we’ll sprout mushrooms, in this half-light, in the cabbage stink of the stairs, and the poo of the little children who are always crying. There’s that old man, by now out of his mind, who sits on the landing waiting for the King to pass; but what King, I say to him. We haven’t had a King for a long time. “What do you mean, of course we have – he says – And one fine day he’ll pass by here; Kings are always out and about, and he’ll have to pass this way. Kings never go away, they make you believe it, perhaps, but they don’t go away; they’re there in the shadows, waiting for you behind a door, in a wardrobe, in the dark, while the stars drift slowly across the sky, they sit on a bench along the avenue. Then, when you least expect it, out they come and everyone claps for them, the trumpets sound, the majorettes go by in parade. And there you stand like a fool, caught off guard, and you don’t know what to say. When I was a boy, we waited for him to pass along via Garibaldi, and we waited so long, so very long, but he didn’t come; they told us he had changed route at the last moment. I was waiting there with a bunch of flowers in my hand, but he didn’t come. But Kings don’t forget, they never forget anything: I know that he remembers he owes me this debt, and one fine day he’ll come, he’ll pass by here, and I’ll be able to give him his little bunch of flowers, which I couldn’t give him so many years ago.”