ConseggioLigure/zenamt huggingface dataset:
Ligurian:
I quattro quaddranti

O nòbile cavaggeo, redeno in armedue, o se parte da-o quaddrante de Oriente e o traversa veddræ rosse çetron e bleu endego; o l’à zuou fedelitæ a-o seu scignoro e o mantegnià a poula dæta, à prexo da vitta. A voentæ do scignoro a l’é ciæa e lampante comme o sô da mattin; into mezo da veddrâ de çentro, di öxelli cantan unna canson che ciù pöchi conoscian; pe giffre e rebighi de sangue e turcheise, a canson a monta e a chiña pe-e scae de veddro lustro, donde i nòstri nommi stan scriti da oe e da secoli. A gianca Regiña a l’aspeta o cavaggeo, assettâ in sciô tröno do quaddrante d’Oçidente, e con euggi benigni a l’ammia o cavaggeo ch’o s’inchiña e o se gh’inzenoggia promê, co-a lansa in man pe zuâghe l’eterno seu amô e obediensa; con un segno da man a Regiña a ô convia à un convëgno de sangue e d’önô. A testa armâ do cavaggeo, stæta appösâ tra i denti ferræ da vagiña sanguinenta da Regiña, a vëgne destaccâ de stòcco, con unna dentâ sola. O cavaggeo o se tia sciù; manco un sobrillo o fa tremmoâ a seu man guantâ de metallo; erto co-a spâ o salua a Regiña, tanto che a carne, e òsse, o færo da seu testa scroscian schissæ tra i denti da vagiña possente; eive ch’o parte pe-i quaddranti do Settentrion, solo co-o seu còrpo sensa testa, à cavallo do seu destrê: l’anima, i sensci, a raxon ghe son chinæ à l’angonaggia, e neuve impreise cantan sotta e antighe bandee; sotta neuve bandee a canta l’antiga spâ. Solo che o dovei pe lê o conta e o canta. Castelli e castellañe rosci, depenti sovia cheulloe bleuçê.

English translation:
The four quadrants

The noble knight, rigid in his armour, sets out from the quadrant of the East and passes through stained-glass panes of red, orange and indigo blue; he has sworn fealty to his lord and will keep his given word, even at the cost of his life. The lord’s will is clear and dazzling as the morning sun; in the middle of the central pane, birds sing a song that few now know; through flourishes and arabesques of blood and turquoise, the song climbs and descends the stairs of polished glass, where our names have stood written for hours and for centuries. The white Queen awaits the knight, seated upon the throne of the quadrant of the West, and with kindly eyes looks upon the knight who bows and kneels before her, lance in hand to swear to her his eternal love and obedience; with a wave of her hand the Queen invites him to a tryst of blood and honour. The knight’s armoured head, laid between the iron teeth of the Queen’s bloody vagina, is severed at a stroke, with a single bite. The knight rises, not so much as a tremor shakes his metal-gauntleted hand; raising his sword high he salutes the Queen, while the flesh, the bones, the iron of his head crunch crushed between the teeth of the mighty vagina; and now he sets off for the quadrants of the North, alone with his decapitated body, astride his steed: soul, senses and reason have descended into his groin, new exploits sing beneath the ancient banners; beneath new banners sings the ancient sword. Only duty counts and sings for him. Red castles and chatelaines, painted upon azure hills.
Ligurian:
A vitta in sciâ Tæra

A l’é a grande domanda che filòsofi, pensatoî, sciensiæ, poeti, teòloghi se son fæti into corso di secoli: gh’é vitta in sciâ Tæra? No ô sa nisciun. Niatri se creddemmo d’ëse vivi, scì, camminemmo in scê stradde do pianeta, mangemmo, dormimmo, anemmo de còrpo, femmo l’amô e se reproduemmo, travaggemmo, se demoemmo, l’é vea. Ma semmo vivi pe in davei, ò semmo da un muggio de tempo inte l’atro mondo e se creddemmo d’ëse vivi, solo perché gh’emmo piggiou l’andio à dîlo, che semmo vivi? L’é de grammo stabilî. De conseguensa, i nòstri cappi de goerno, i nòstri re, imperoei, prescidenti, an deçiso che s’organizzesse unna commiscion, ch’a foïse compòsta da studioxi, scrittoî, sciensiæ e ch’a l’anesse à indagâ in sciâ Tæra se i terrestri existan, ò se donca en solo che unn’inluxon. Stæto partio a commiscion in sce un razzo spaçiale, o l’à fæto bello che fito à arrivâ; con pöco speisa, ascì, beseugna dîlo, stante che in sciâ Tæra gh’ean za; ma e concruxoin, che i seu componenti an posciuo tiâ da sta vixita, ean contraditöie, tutt’atro che ciæe. Fòscia – a l’é solo che unn’ipòtexi – perché i studioxi appartëgnan lô mæximi a-a popolaçion da Tæra e, donca, fòscia liatri ascì en inte l’atro mondo da tanto tempo, ma no se n’en mai adæti. Besorrià che se rescignemmo à tegnîse o dubio.

English translation:
Life on Earth

It is the great question that philosophers, thinkers, scientists, poets, theologians, have asked themselves over the centuries: is there life on Earth? Nobody knows. We believe we are alive, yes, we walk on the roads of the planet, we eat, we sleep, we go to the bathroom, we make love, we reproduce, we work, we have fun, it’s true. But are we truly alive, or have we long been in the other world and believe ourselves alive only because we have grown accustomed to saying it, that we are alive? It’s hard to determine. Consequently, our heads of government, our kings, emperors, presidents, have decided that a commission be organized, composed of scholars, writers, scientists, and sent to investigate on Earth whether earthlings exist, or whether they are merely an illusion. The commission, having departed on a special rocket, arrived very quickly; at little cost, moreover, it must be said, given that they were already on Earth; but the conclusions its members were able to draw from this visit were contradictory, anything but clear. Perhaps – it is only a hypothesis – because the scholars themselves belong to the population of the Earth and, therefore, perhaps they too have long been in the other world, but have never realized it. We shall have to resign ourselves to keeping the doubt.
Ligurian:
E creatue do ciuvasco

No ê conoscei e creatue che s’asconde into ciuvasco? Pe tanto tempo aspetan derê de l’ombra de cöse: tutto o pâ queto e paxe ma no l’é coscì; quande in sciâ tæra chiña quella tendiña grixa d’ægua, peuan vegnî feua da un momento à l’atro. Cammiño lesto pe-a creusa da arente a-i vegi çemetëi e con quell’ægua zu à deruo no se ghe vedde à doî pasci. L’ægua a core tra e prie e a tæra, pe addesciâ i mòrti che se â beivan co-a bocca averta. A creusa a passa da-a vexin a-o mâ e i figgeu ch’à perduo a stradda de cà de belle vòtte no â treuvan ciù: e creatue do ciuvasco tian sciù a tendiña pe un momento e î fan passâ de de là, da l’atra parte; lô ghe pâ d’ëse inte un pòsto conosciuo, no s’accòrzan da differensa e no se ne van mai ciù. Me diei: comme ti fæ à savei ste cöse chì? Ma l’é ciæo, perché mi ascì me son perso, ò poia. Mi son da l’atra parte da tendiña, comme viatri, da un muggio de anni. Semmo tutti da l’atra parte: ma mi me sovvëgno un pittin, pöco davei, do mondo de de là. E, in sciâ fin, comme se fa à desfiguâ o de sà da-o de là, se son pægi? Quante tempo l’é passou! Oua son vegio e vorriæ çercâ à anâ torna de donde son vegnuo. Mæ pai, no gh’ammanca guæi.

English translation:
The creatures of the storm

Don’t you know the creatures that hide within the storm? For a long time they wait behind the shadow of things: everything seems quiet and calm but it isn’t so; when that grey curtain of rain falls upon the earth, they can come out at any moment. I walk quickly along the lane near the old cemeteries and with that pouring rain you can’t see two steps ahead. The water runs between the stones and the earth, to wake the dead who drink it with open mouths. The little road passes near the sea and the children who have lost their way home often never find it again: the creatures of the rain lift the curtain for a moment and let them pass through, to the other side; to them it seems they are in a familiar place, they don’t notice the difference and they never leave again. You will say to me: how do you know these things? Why, it’s clear, because I too have lost my way, I fear. I am on the other side of the curtain, like you, and have been for many years. We are all on the other side: but I remember a little, very little really, of the world beyond. Besides, how can one tell this side from that, if they are the same? How much time has passed! Now I am old and I would like to try to return to where I came from. In my view, it cannot be much longer.
Ligurian:
Un vegio diao

Un vegio diao in biçicletta o corriva sciù pe-a montâ de stelle e o se domandava: «Chi sa se saiò cacciou zu da sto erto pennello proteiso in sciô mâ in tempesta de constellaçioin?» Pedalla e pedalla o l’é arrivou da un pòrtego tutto d’argento: e stradde do Pareiso, ciù in là da luña, se arvivan larghe e ciæe, ma o diao o no se ghe poeiva avvexinâ; desteise de scioe anavan verso e montagne turchiñe, ma o diao o l’aiva d’anâ ancon ciù lontan. Un barco à veia o passava in scilençio tra quelle desteise d’erba e de scioî, sensa manco unna voxe, sensa un timonê, ma o diao o l’aiva da continuâ à pedallâ.

English translation:
An Old Devil

An old devil on a bicycle was riding up the slope of stars and wondering: “Who knows whether I’ll be thrown down from this high pier jutting out over the storm-tossed sea of the constellations?” Pedalling and pedalling, he came to a great gate all of silver; the streets of Paradise, beyond the moon, opened wide and bright, but the devil could not draw near: expanses of flowers stretched away toward the blue mountains, but the devil had to go on past. A sailing ship passed in silence through those expanses of grass and flowers, without so much as a voice, without a helmsman, but the devil had to keep on pedalling.
Ligurian:
O son do seunno

Eive o son do seunno; pe antighe stradde anemmo, ma semmo apreuvo à assunnâse. Chinemmo pe unna negia grixa, pe l’allea de tiggi, de donde n’ammia di mori gianchi sens’euggi, e moen son gianche e se strenzan a-i teu di erboi; nisciun son no n’arriva da-i mori gianchi, che n’ammian e basta. Un sottî son de violin da-o fondo de l’arba o ne parla, ma no semmo dî d’in davei de dond’o ne vëgne: da-o canto de tombe abbandonæ, da l’erba chi ghe cresce. O tempo o l’à ciantou lì de camminâ e cian cianin o s’arretia comme unna coverta e o mette à nuo i marmai gianchi.

English translation:
The Sound of the Dream

Here is the sound of the dream; we walk along ancient streets, but we are dreaming. We descend through a grey mist, down the avenue of lime trees, where white faces without eyes watch us, the hands are white and clutch at the tree trunks; no sound reaches us from the white faces, which simply watch us. A thin sound of violin from the depths of dawn speaks to us, but we cannot truly say from where it comes: from the corner of the abandoned tombs, from the grass that grows there. Time has ceased to run and slowly withdraws like a blanket, laying the white marbles bare.
Ligurian:
A frontea

Da maniman che s’avvexinemmo a-a frontea, o trafego o cresce; e fie de machine che s’asprescian verso a dugaña vëgnan ciù scciasse, tanto che à un bello momento no se mescemmo ciù; aloa chinemmo d’in machina e anemmo à pê pe vedde cöse l’é intravegnuo. L’é de neutte e i duganê van avanti co-o seu fadigoso travaggio; à un pe un contròllan i papê e co-i euggi stracchi e bollæ ne fan segno de no fermâse, che gh’emmo da anâ avanti, ancon ciù avanti. Tutto à pê, se sporzemmo à ammiâ donde a finisce a fia: gh’é un deruo stramesuou sensa luxe, donde e machine cazzan uña apreuvo à l’atra sensa che se sente un sospio. De semme in semme, un angeo o passa à cheugge unn’anima cheita.

English translation:
The frontier

As we draw nearer to the frontier, traffic grows heavier; the lines of cars crowding toward customs become denser, until at a certain point we stop moving altogether; so we get out of the car and go on foot to see what has happened. It is night and the customs officers carry on with their wearisome work; one by one they check the documents and with tired, hollow-ringed eyes they motion us not to stop, because we must keep going, ever further on. Still on foot, we lean out to see where the line ends: there is an immeasurable chasm without light, where the cars fall one after another without a sigh being heard. Now and then, an angel passes by to gather up a fallen soul.
Ligurian:
E cæ mòrte

E persoñe che n’à vosciuo ben, che n’à conosciuo da figgeu, ò che solo n’an ammiou in desdaxo, i vegi butegæ, o meistro, i bidelli, i solitäi gandolli de stradde veue de l’uverno, i òmmi che parla da pe lô e passan sotta i freidi fanæ da arente e luxe da mæña, i òmmi e e dònne de rustega caitæ, son arrestæ tutti inte cæ mòrte da zoentù. No son cæ triste, ammagonæ; ançi, son ciæe, piñe de luxe, e ciappelle nette, i astreghi lustri; un o peu assettâse in sciô sofà, mangiâ pöcassæ, ammiâ a televixon, fâse unna pisaggia, ammiâ i erboi inta luxe tenea da seia. Ma de de lì poæ e moæ, i barbi, i coxin, i messiäi, i vegi de stradde no ne sciòrtan ciù. Stan assettæ a-a töa e ammian che ven seia.

English translation:
The dead houses

The people who loved us, who knew us as children, or who only glanced at us in passing, the old shopkeepers, the schoolmaster, the school caretakers, the solitary wanderers of the deserted winter streets, the men who talk to themselves and pass beneath the cold streetlamps beside the lights of the beach, the men and women of rough kindness, have all remained in the dead houses of youth. They are not sad houses, melancholy; on the contrary, they are bright, full of light, the tiles clean, the floors polished; one can sit on the sofa, have a little something to eat, watch television, take a nap, look at the trees in the soft evening light. But from there father and mother, the uncles, the cousins, the grandparents, the old men of the streets no longer come out. They sit at the table and watch evening come on.
Ligurian:
A machina inta bratta

Eivimo addesciou l’antiga machina da-o sò seunno millenäio; stramesuæ e seu òsse de metallo appossæ à meitæ inta bratta tremmoavan; a machina a çercava à parlâ, ma e poule no vegnivan feua, ballavan in scê lerfe da machina, ma no sciortivan. Voeivimo savei e caxoin primme de l’universo mondo, e solo che a machina a poeiva conoscile, solo che a seu antighitæ a n’aiva sentio parlâ, tra o borbonâ di planeti che euggezzavan in sciô mondo a-o comenso de tutto. Poule che meue e poule che s’attian e se respinzan tra de lô van à formâ a lettiatua, a construçion mentale, ch’a l’é ciù vea da veitæ mæxima. Stæta interrogâ, un mogogno fondo o l’é vegnuo sciù d’inti ventraggi da machina.

English translation:
The Machine in the Mud

We had roused the ancient machine from its millennial sleep; its immense bones of metal sunk halfway into the mud were trembling; the machine was trying to speak, but the words would not come out, they danced on the machine’s lips, but did not come out. We wanted to know the first causes of the universal world, and only the machine could know them, only its antiquity had heard us speak, amid the humming of the planets that peeped out upon the world at the beginning of everything. Words that die and words that attract and repel one another go to form literature, the mental construct, which is truer than reality itself. Questioned, a deep rumbling rose from the bowels of the machine.
Ligurian:
A Grande Caa de Pria

A Grande Caa de Pria in çimma da montagna, sciben ch’a no l’à de euggi a t’ammia fisso e a te domanda cöse ti veu savei; ti, dòppo che t’æ camminou pe de oe, no ti sæ cöse repricâ. Ti vorriësci savei comme mai i regòrdi de cöse ciù belle, e de quelle ciù brutte ascì, perdan de vivessa e se desmainan cian cianin, scin à tanto che tutto quello che t’é accapitou o vëgne à ëse un unico muggio grixo sensa forma; ma no ti ô riësci à dî; ti monti unna scaa pe arrivâ da lê e ti sæ che t’ê apreuvo à chinâla e dapeu, quande ti â chiñi, ti sæ che t’ê apreuvo à montâla. E cöse de za successe e quelle ancon da vegnî son vege pægio e sensa forma, inte un canto da memöia.

English translation:
The Great Stone Face

The Great Stone Face atop the mountain, though it has no eyes, stares at you fixedly and asks what you wish to know; you, after walking for hours, do not know what to answer. You would like to know why the memories of the most beautiful things, and even of the ugliest, lose their vividness and dissolve little by little, until everything that has happened to you becomes a single grey, shapeless heap; but you cannot say it; you climb a staircase to reach it and you know you are descending, and then, when you descend, you know you are climbing. The things that have already happened and those still to come are equally old and shapeless, in a corner of memory.
Ligurian:
A scainâ

Chi peu dî cöse ghe saià a-o fondo da scainâ? Tanto che ti væ zu, de persoñe co-i euggi fissi davanti à lô montan in senso conträio. Ma ti ti chiñi in basso. L’é doî menuti che ti poeivi ancon vedde a luxe do giorno ch’a s’aspëgiava inti pòrteghi e inti barcoin di antighi palaçi; oua gh’é scuo e da maniman che ti væ verso o fondo vëgne ancon ciù scuo. Vegette co-i seu banchetti vendan i feuggi do semenäio, co-i numei che sciortian sens’atro. Meze ascose inte quarche sottoscaa, de vòtte tian feua e ae neigre e grixe e ê sbattan con raggia contra e miage, apreuvo che pöchi ben gh’accattan i sò feuggetti. «Escì che un muggio de vòtte guägnan!» dixan. «Perché no ve ne xeuæ via – ghe dixe e gente – za che gh’ei e ae?» E lô: «No semmo ciù boñe da xeuâ, l’é passou tròppo da l’urtima vòtta.»

English translation:
The Staircase

Who can say what lies at the bottom of the staircase? As you descend, a few people with eyes fixed straight ahead climb up in the opposite direction. But you go down to the bottom. Two minutes ago you could still see the daylight reflected in the doorways and on the windows of the old palazzi; now it is dark, and the further down you go, the darker it becomes. Little old women at their stalls sell lottery tickets, with the numbers that are sure to come up. Half-hidden in some recess beneath the stairs, they sometimes spread out their black and grey wings and beat them angrily against the walls, since very few people buy their slips. “And yet they win plenty of times!” they say. “Why don’t you fly away,” people say to them, “since you have wings?” And they: “We can no longer fly, too much time has passed since the last time.”
Ligurian:
A cornaggia

Con sta cornaggia ch’a continua rosiggiandome a porpa da gamba, no pòsso fâ guæi cammin, sciben che vaggo in sce unna cianua; ma d’atra parte a l’é unna cianua piña de sappelli, un seu streppellou e sucido de petròlio e cherosen, e me ghe imbrinco delongo. Pe de ciù, oua gh’é quelli atri che me vëgne apreuvo: veddo e luxe aluxe de seu lanterne e sento fiña o baiâ di chen. E oua comme fasso? Fiña d’ammassâ a cornaggia me rincresce, a l’é unna pövea creatua lê ascì, me diei che son abbellinou ma a l’é coscì. A l’é finia che â fasso descorrî, tanto ch’a finisce un pittin de pittâme a gamba, a-o manco gh’ò quarchedun da raxonâghe insemme. «Se no t’avesci famme, ti me lasciësci quëtâ» ghe diggo, ma lê a zinzaña, a no veu dî ni de scì ni de na. Ma intanto sento baiâ i chen, se me ciappan me fan à tòcchi.

English translation:
The Crow

With this crow that keeps gnawing at my calf, I can’t cover much ground, even though I’m walking on a plain; but then again it’s a plain full of obstacles, a rough ground filthy with petroleum and kerosene, and I keep tripping on it. What’s more, now there are those others following me: I can see the distant lights of their lanterns and I can also hear the barking of the dogs. And now what am I to do? Even killing the crow grieves me, it’s a poor creature too, you’ll tell me I’ve gone soft in the head but that’s how it is. It ends up that I get her talking, so she’ll stop pecking at my leg for a bit, at least I have someone to talk to. “If you weren’t hungry, you’d leave me alone,” I say to her, but she hesitates, she won’t say yes or no. Meanwhile I hear the dogs barking, if they catch me they’ll tear me to pieces.
Ligurian:
A vegia scignoa

A vegia scignoa assettâ into scuo a me dà i arregòrdi; a me fa vegnî in cheu mæ moæ e me commeuvo. A me exòrta à ëse ciù ottimista: se ciammemmo o mâ da pe niatri – a dixe – à son de vedde tutto neigro. Beseugna ëse ciù ottimisti, l’é vea – ghe diggo. Ma a stradda da fâ a l’é ancon longa. D’ammiâla ciù ben, m’accòrzo ch’a l’à unna mascara de carlevâ in sciô moro, unna mascara con un naso longo e me ven coæ de tiâghelo, coscì pe treppo. Ma lê, manco s’a m’æse lezzuo into pensceo, a se â leva da pe lê e a se tia sciù, a sciòrte un pittin da-o scuo verso a luxe. Se vedde aloa che a seu cea a l’é stæta mangiâ da-e formigoe tòsto tutta; ancon quarche formigoa a scappa de sà e de là, e de sotta no gh’ea de carne ni de òsse, ma di ingranaggi de unna machina feua de mòdda. «Scignoa – ghe diggo, tanto che me inzenoggio – scignoa, saiò ciù ottimista, ghe ô zuo.»

English translation:
The Old Lady

The old lady sitting in the dark gives me warnings; she reminds me of my mother and I am moved. She urges me to be more optimistic: we call down evil upon ourselves – she says – by dint of seeing everything black. One must be more optimistic, it’s true – I tell her. But the road ahead is still long. Looking at her more closely, I notice she is wearing a carnival mask on her face, a mask with a long nose, and I feel like tugging at it, just for fun. But she, as if she had read my thoughts, takes it off herself and rises, stepping a little out of the dark toward the light. It can be seen then that her face has been eaten by ants almost entirely; a few ants still scurry here and there, and underneath there was neither flesh nor bone, but the gears of an old-fashioned machine. “Madam – I say to her, as I kneel down – madam, I shall be more optimistic, I swear it to you.”
Ligurian:
L’oa urtima

L’urtimo ciòcco da giornâ o deslengua into lago da neutte; cado do sô de l’anno à vegnî, che fòscia no veddiemo, ingheuggeito inte de coverte asseunnellæ. De giorno, unn’ombra crua a me vegniva apreuvo, inte contræ deserte, a se stampava contra e miage de pria gianca: a mæ poexia l’ò pagâ caa comme tutto, perché no son mai stæto un òmmo comme i atri; ma se a vitta a foïse tutta liscia, ciaña, sensa besiggi, sensa gente ch’a l’insiga, a saieiva solo che unn’imagine da mòrte, donde infæti de dô no ghe n’é ciù. Se no avescimo da patî, a vitta a no ghe saieiva, a corrieiva monòtona da-o prinçipio a-a fin, sensa oppoxiçioin, sensa forma. Stissa à stissa, a mæ vitta comme unna gossa de rosâ in sce unna sciô, comme l’urtimo ciòcco da giornâ.

English translation:
The Final Hour

The last stroke of the day dissolves into the lake of night; warm with the sun of the year to come, which perhaps we shall not see, wrapped in drowsy blankets. By day, a harsh shadow followed me, through the deserted streets, imprinting itself against the walls of white stone: I have paid dearly for my poetry, because I have never been a man like the others; but if life were all smooth, flat, without torments, without people who needle you, it would be only an image of death, where indeed there is no more pain. If we did not have to suffer, life would not exist, it would run on monotonously from beginning to end, without oppositions, without form. Little by little, my life like a drop of dew upon a flower, like the last stroke of the day.
Ligurian:
Stradde de cäçiña

O lumme da luña, ti l’æsci visto dexe mioin de anni avanti, o l’ea pægio de oua; o mandava a seu luxe in scê onde da mæña inte un raxonâ mutto a-o de là do tempo e de l’istöia. Cöse mai emmo impreiso da vitta, feua che sto camminâ in scê onde da luña, no semmo fin donde? Ma o nòstro passou e o nòstro avvegnî son scriti in scê miage gianche do nòstro satellite, e seu stradde de cäçiña abbandonâ a-o vento di secoli mòrti; semmo stracchi de vedde sempre i mæximi mori, i mæximi ponti sorve sciummi de stagno. Se a-o mondo no ghe foïse de angosciaie e besiggi, de cöse a saieiva fæta a nòstra vitta? De ninte; aniëscimo pe-i sentê in sempiterno pægi, tanto che l’ägno o tesce a seu teia a-e nòstre spalle, sensa poei azzonze ninte à quello ch’o l’é stæto dito.

English translation:
Roads of lime

The light of the moon, had I seen it ten million years ago, was the same as now; it sent its light upon the waves of the sea in a mute discourse beyond time and history. What have we ever learned from life, except this walking on the waves of the moon, we know not how far? But our past and our future are written on the white walls of our satellite, its roads of lime abandoned to the wind of dead centuries; we are weary of seeing always the same faces, the same bridges over rivers of tin. If in the world there were no troubles and torments, of what would our life be made? Of nothing; we would go along paths eternally the same, while the spider weaves its web behind our backs, unable to add anything to what has already been said.
Ligurian:
L’ombra de unna parpaggia

Staggo assettou in sciâ banchiña de fronte a-a mæña, e no conoscio ciù a linia do zinâ. O mæ còrpo o manda unn’ombra grixa in sciô catran lustro da stradda; a testa ch’a stà pe addormîse a se mescia cianin, comme in sce unna nuvia. No se mescia nint’atro d’in gio, no l’arriva ciù nisciun son a-e mæ oege. O mæ sangue o core inte veñe e mi m’ammio da-o de feua, comme se foïse un atro ch’o s’ammia. A comedia a l’é tòsto finia, sciben che no sò comm’a finià: o mæ còrpo o me vëgne à ëse estraneo. L’ombra de unna parpaggia, ch’a no gh’é, a se pösa in sce l’ombra da mæ testa; unna nuvia a passa de fronte a-o sô e no se vedde ciù nisciuña de doe. Quello che mi son o no l’é tòsto ciù; pòsso ëse tutto e ninte, lasciò o mæ vestî in sciô fondo do mâ.

English translation:
The Shadow of a Butterfly

I am sitting on the bench facing the sea, and I no longer recognize the line of the horizon. My body casts a grey shadow on the gleaming asphalt of the road; my head, on the verge of falling asleep, moves slowly, as if upon a cloud. Nothing else stirs around me, no sound reaches my ears anymore. My blood runs through my veins and I watch myself from the outside, as though it were someone else watching me. The play is almost over, though I do not know how it will end: my body is becoming a stranger to me. The shadow of a butterfly, which does not exist, alights on the shadow of my head; a cloud passes before the sun and neither of them can be seen any longer. What I am is almost no more; I can be everything and nothing, I leave my garment at the bottom of the sea.
Ligurian:
Òmmi-fonzo

Un Dê ch’o l’à fæto mioin de planeti e galasce, comm’o fa à interessâse de niatri che semmo meno che pua? Fòscia i òmmi-fonzo de Altair no avian de beseugno comme niatri de confòrto spiituale? Con tutto che no an mai commisso de peccou originäio, podama sentian liatri ascì o beseugno de confiâse con quarchidun; ò donca, se mai l’an commisso, saian stuffi de stâsene fermi sensa poeise mesciâ. E aloa o Segnô o dovià dâ a mente à liatri ascì, quande ammian de constellaçioin mai viste da niatri, che chiñan de derê a-i monti, scheñe de bestie accoegæ in scî proei de galasce che respian cian cianin. Tî, se st’atro gio de reincarnaçion un o va à nasce òmmo-fonzo, o l’é un scabrincio! O ciù tanto do romantiçiximo o l’é quande lascian anâ e spöre, cösa chi ghe capita pöco avanti de moî.

English translation:
Mushroom-men

A God who has made millions of planets and galaxies, how can He concern Himself with us, who are less than dust? Perhaps the mushroom-men of Altair will not need spiritual comfort the way we do? Even though they have never committed original sin, perhaps they too will feel the need to confide in someone; or else, if they ever did commit it, they will be tired of staying still without being able to move. And then the Lord will have to look after them too, when they gaze at constellations never seen by us, sinking behind the mountains, backs of animals lying on the meadows of the galaxies, breathing slowly. But just think, if at the next turn of reincarnation one were to be reborn as a mushroom-man, what rotten luck! The height of romance for them is when they release their spores, which happens to them shortly before dying.
Ligurian:
O tempo o no l’é eterno

O firmamento d’in gio, a cupoa donde se score i planeti, a vegnià zu, into sussuro; into momento che mi meuo, o ninte o prefondià into ninte; o scilençio ch’o ne aspeta pægio de un scöso. O tempo o no l’é eterno, mioin de anni stan serræ inte un attimo, ch’o l’é za finio; solo che a nòstra limitatessa a ne dà l’idea che o tempo o vagghe avanti. Ma l’eternitæ a finisce, e con lê tutta l’infinia complescitæ da vitta. Ma no, sciù, che pöi dond’a l’é tutta sta complescitæ? Da l’infinitamente grande à l’infinitamente piccin, l’universo o l’é un stramesuou zeugo da bòcce che se piccan uña inte l’atra in desdaxo. Mi son mi, ma porrieiva ëse un atro ascì. Grixe fabriche inta luxe metallica da neutte; sento l’ægua chi cazze da-e nuvie, a se spanze in scî atri universci.

English translation:
Time is not eternal

The firmament around us, the dome where the planets chase one another, will collapse with a roar; the moment I die, nothingness will sink into nothingness; the silence that awaits us like a womb. Time is not eternal, millions of years are locked within an instant, which is already over; only our finitude gives us the idea that time goes on. But eternity ends, and with it all the infinite complexity of life. But no, come now, where is all this complexity? From the infinitely large to the infinitely small, the universe is an immense game of bowls in which the balls collide with one another involuntarily. I am myself, but I could just as well be another. Grey factories in the metallic light of the night; I hear the water falling from the clouds, expanding over other universes.
Ligurian:
O nemigo

A moæ co-o seu figgeu piccin in brasso a menava e solacche a-a despiâ. Tutta inlardonâ de bratta, a s’é infiâ into scagno di cavæ. Podama an za piggiou o pòsto de poliçia? Na, e cae di òmmi de guardia en carme e fòrte. «Fito, piggiæ o mæ ninin. Me scoran, me stan a-e tròsse. No m’incallo à pensâ cöse porrieivan fâghe. No gh’an ninte de uman, feua che quarchidun, che peò o gh’à de scagge verde in sciô creuso da man drita» a dixe. «Scignoa, pensemmo niatri, scià no s’allägne». De ombre se mesciavan in fondo a-a stradda; un cavæ o spaa da-o barcon, i nemixi respondan e dötrei cazzan mòrti. Ma a dònna, stæta ciappâ into steumago a rantega: «Ve suprico, o mæ figgeu…» e a meue. «Stanni brao ninin… brao… - o diva un di cavæ, con fâghe o bollitigo sotta o mento - ma cöse ti gh’æ chì coscì, in sciâ man? Unna brigoeta verde? A te dà breiga, vea? Mia, ciammiemo o mego…»

English translation:
The Enemy

The mother, her newborn in her arms, ran in desperation. All covered in mud, she slipped into the traffic police station. Could they already have seized the police post? No, the faces of the guards on duty are calm and strong. “Quick, take my little one. They’re after me, they’re right at my heels. I dare not think what they might do to him. They have nothing human about them, except for one who has green scales on the palm of his right hand,” says the woman. “Madam, we’ll see to it, don’t you worry.” Shadows were moving at the far end of the street; an officer fires from the window, the enemies return fire and two or three fall dead. But the woman, struck in the stomach, gasps: “I beg you, my baby…” and dies. “There, there, little one… there… – an officer was saying, tickling him under the chin – but what’s this here, on your hand? A little green pimple? It bothers you, doesn’t it? Look, we’ll call the doctor…”
Ligurian:
O vegio öxelasso

O vegio öxellasso ascoso sotta o bordonâ do teito no sciòrto ciù à scorrîlo; tutte e vòtte che passo o çerca à granfignâme. Mi me ghe preuvo à acciappâlo, ma lê o s’arretia in derê. Creddei che no ô sacce che, s’o peu, o l’agguanta i figgeu e e dònne che passa e o î fa à tòcchi? Con mi o no se ghe preuva, perché o sa che ghe daggo de baccæ in sciâ testa. De vòtte o canta cansoin da ostaia, o fia co-a rocca e o fuso, o rie fòrte, pe fâ mostra de ninte, ma mi no me fio. Oua, tutti sti sbiri e giudiçi e avvocati m’ammian con locciâ a testa e dixan che son stæto pròpio mi che ò seviçiou e ammassou dònne e figgeu e dapeu î ò ascoxi derê o bordonâ into soieu, ma no l’é vea, ve zuo che no l’é vea. O l’é stæto l’öxelasso; mi ò çercou à no dâghe a mente, ma lê o me ciammava, o me criava inta testa giorno e neutte, mi gh’aiva solo che da obedî, senza discutte.

English translation:
The old wretched bird

The old wretched bird hidden under the main roof beam – I can’t drive him out anymore; every time I pass by, he tries to claw me. I try to catch him, but he draws back. Do you think I don’t know that, given the chance, he snatches the children and women who pass by and tears them to pieces? He doesn’t try it with me, because he knows I’ll whack him on the head with a stick. Sometimes he sings tavern songs, spins with the distaff and spindle, sniggers, just to play the innocent, but I don’t trust him. Now, all these cops and judges and lawyers look at me, shaking their heads, and say it was I myself who tortured and killed women and children, hiding them then behind the main beam of the attic, but it isn’t true, I swear to you it isn’t true. It was the wretched bird; I tried not to listen to him, but he called me, he screamed inside my head day and night; I had only to obey, without question.
Ligurian:
Umio retorno

Inta goâ de vin, into sô scilençioso de l’arba, into gödimento do mæ còrpo co-o teu, inte imagine che e poule forman combinæ tra de lô, inti accostamenti de cô in sciâ teia, into borbonâ do vento pe-a grande neutte, carrega de lontananse ciæe, into son de nòtte de violin, ch’o se spanze à l’infinio, pròpio comme inta stissa d’ægua ch’a ne ven da-o çê e a s’inlarghisce fin à ciazze e cianue a-o de là do mâ, emmo fermou o tempo. E da-o nòstro còrpo ghe sccioisce fî d’erba, che van à pe tære e à pe sciummi; umio retorno co-i pê nui de mendicco a-e cabanne do mondo à l’öroa: e cae de zovene stelle in scî zerbi an meno de unn’oa. E cae fute de ombre di mòrti, stæte viste into seunno a-a mattin, scentan leste a-o cavo de stelle, a-o de là de l’oexin de sta tæra.

English translation:
Humble Return

In the sip of wine, in the silent sun of dawn, in the pleasure of my body with yours, in the images that words form when joined together, in the juxtapositions of color on the canvas, in the whirring of the wind through the vast night, laden with clear distances, in the sound of violin notes expanding into infinity, just as in the drop of water that comes from the sky and spreads as far as the shores and plains beyond the sea, we have halted time. And from our body blades of grass unfold, going in search of earth and rivers; humble return with bare feet like a beggar to the huts of the world at daybreak: the faces of young stars upon the meadows are less than an hour old. The pale faces of the shades of the dead, glimpsed in dreams at morning, vanish swiftly at the promontory of stars, beyond the rim of this earth.
Ligurian:
À vezo in scê sganzie

M’asseunno a frase de un scrittô e me pâ che in davei o l’agge scrita lê; inta testa gh’ò tutta unna biblioteca de autoî, che quand’ean vivi no se l’avieivan mai ciù credduo de scrive e cöse che gh’attribuiscio mi. E son cöse vee, son seunni che omai stan inta realitæ, intran à fâ parte da veitæ perché mi ghe î ò missi, no gh’é mainea de descreuve cöse gh’é de veo e cöse gh’é de fäso, tra e miage do mæ seunno; perché quello ch’à scrito poeti e filòsofi inti seu libbri da veggia o dovieiva ësime ciù cao che quello ch’an scrito inti mæ seunni? Imbagio e arve da libbraia e treuvo de drito o libbro che çercava: Platon e Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Borges e Heidegger continuan à desgheugge o seu pensceo, no son mai mòrti; e perché dovieivan ësilo? Nisciun no meue mai pe in davei, ma o se ne va à vezo in scê sganzie do seunno.

English translation:
To Rest upon the Shelves

I dream the sentence of a writer and it truly seems he wrote it himself; in my head I have a whole library of authors who, when they were alive, would never have believed they would write the things I attribute to them. And they are true things, they are dreams that by now belong to reality, they enter into the fabric of truth because I have introduced them there, there is no way to discover what is true and what is false within the walls of my dream; why should what poets and philosophers wrote in their waking books be dearer to me than what they have written in my dreams? I push open the doors of the bookcase and at once I find the book I was looking for: Plato and Schopenhauer, Nietzsche, Borges and Heidegger go on unfolding their thought, they have never died; and why should they be? No one ever truly dies, but goes off to take refuge upon the shelves of sleep.
Ligurian:
O mostro mæn

À quelli tempi ea un mostro mæn, ch’o stava delongo accoegou in sciô fondo do mâ; ma e ciù belle vòtte a mæ anima scua a scuggiava feua da-o seunno e a l’anava into mondo averto e a schiffiva i bacaletti inta luxe e a se mescciava con l’æn de l’amâ, donde se sente o profummo da grande libertæ. Ma ancon ciù de soventi a mæ anima a s’arrembava a-o veuo assoluo, ch’o no l’à de cô ni de forma, a tomba mutta donde s’accheuggeiva o ninte a-o de là di secoli. E o scilençio do pensceo o l’ea quello che ne tocchià à tutti a-a fin da nòstra vitta, che seggimo mostri mæn ò no. Oua, da quande no son ciù un abitatô do mâ, coro in sciâ seu riva, in çercâ à fâme vegnî in cheu comme mai che son chì con un còrpo de carne umaña, dòppo d’avei inandiou st’eterno cammin. Fòscia mi son ancon quello mostro mæn che oua o s’asseunna d’ëse un òmmo e sento a nostargia de quello che son stæto e de quello che saiò torna.

English translation:
The Sea Monster

In those days I was a sea monster, who lay always upon the ocean floor; but very often my dark soul slipped out of its dream and went into the open world and grazed the breakers in the light and mingled with the breath of the sea offshore, where one smells the scent of great freedom. But more often still my soul leaned upon the absolute void, which has neither color nor form, the mute tomb where nothingness gathered beyond the centuries. And the silence of thought is what will fall to us all at the end of our lives, whether we are sea monsters or not. Now, since I am no longer a dweller of the sea, I run along its shore, trying to remember why I am here with a body of human flesh, after having set out upon this eternal way. Perhaps I am still that sea monster who now dreams of being a man, and I feel nostalgia for what I have been and for what I shall be once again.
Ligurian:
Di òmmi vestii de neigro

I atei descaxoñan o Segnô da l’avei creou o mâ, se piggian lägno de sarvâ a seu reputaçion; ma o mâ, o dô, o patî existan a-o mæximo, sciben che o Segnô o no gh’é. E aloa, ghe dev’ëse quarchedun atro ch’o n’à corpa; o no saià l’equilibrio do mondo ch’o l’à de beseugno do patimento di òmmi e de bestie? L’equilibrio o dev’ëse mantegnuo, maniman tutto sto baraccon o s’incartinieiva in preçipitâ da-o çê stramesuou a-i prefondi; ti peu dî che no t’interessa, che ti te ne fæ assæ, ma no ti peu sghindâ a fin ch’a ne tocca tutti. Oua che tutte e poule en deslenguæ, di òmmi vestii de neigro van, in sciâ lassa do mâ, à çercâ becchelletti, cheuggette, segni sottî de cöse l’é stæto, e a tempesta lontaña a ghe sciuscia inte oege, con un luo ch’o ne ven da-i termi do mondo, da-e cianue de mâ, tæra e çê. No se peu leze ciù nisciun segno ciæo e beseugna comensâ torna da-o prinçipio.

English translation:
Of men dressed in black

The atheists absolve God from having created evil, they take pains to save his reputation, but evil, pain, suffering exist all the same, even if God is not there. And so, there must be someone else who is to blame; might it not be the equilibrium of the world that needs the suffering of men and beasts? The equilibrium must be maintained, otherwise this whole contraption would crumple up, plunging from the vast sky into the abyss; you can say it doesn’t interest you, that you don’t care, but you cannot escape the end that comes to everyone. Now that all words have dissolved, men dressed in black walk, along the seashore, looking for little stones, tiny shells, faint signs of what has been, and the distant storm howls in their ears, with a wail that comes from the ends of the world, from the plains of sea, earth and sky. No clear sign can be read any longer and we must begin again from the beginning.
Ligurian:
Cöse gh’é derê a pòrta?

E ô sò che, quande vëgno à cà, lê o gh’é, derê da pòrta à aspëtâme; ògni seia, ògni settemaña, o l’à quarche tägnâ de ciù, quarche granetta de pua de ciù. No se dimmo manco unna poula; a-o mascimo quarche vòtta ò tentou un «boña seia», ma lê o no reprica, feua che con un parpellâ di euggi. Da l’erto do luxernâ ven zu de vòtte de stisse d’ægua, e de belle vòtte no ceuve manco. Niatri no emmo de beseugno de parlâse. I atri inquilin î conoscio ancon meno; no ô sa nisciun cöse succede derê à quelle pòrte, delongo serræ. De vòtte, inte giornæ de lebeccio se sente pregâ, ma ciù che preghee pan giastemme. E teste de antighi Re imbarsamæ, da-e doe parte da gallaia de marmao, cantan con unna voxe röca e loude di çê sciätæ.

English translation:
What lies behind the door?

And I know that, when I come home, he is there, behind the door waiting for me; every evening, every week, he has a few more cobwebs, a few more specks of dust. We do not exchange so much as a word; at most I have sometimes attempted a “good evening,” but he does not reply, except with a blink of his eyes. From the skylight above, drops of water sometimes fall, and many times it is not even raining. We have no need to speak to one another. The other tenants I know even less; no one knows what happens behind those doors, always shut. At times, on days of libeccio, one hears praying, but more than prayers they sound like curses. The mummified heads of the ancient Kings, on either side of the marble gallery, sing in a hoarse voice the praises of the tumultuous heavens.
Ligurian:
O vegio peregrin

O vegio peregrin o s’inandiava de pe i sentê da campagna e i fanæ, che luxiva pe no se sa chi e da no se sa quande, ô compagnavan pe-o seu cammin in scilençio, ch’o l’avieiva portou torna a-o prinçipio di seu pasci. Apreuvo che o mondo, pe eterno ch’o segge, o no l’é fæto pe duâ e o vive solo che un giorno; pròpio perché niatri, che ghe stemmo, semmo destinæ à scentâ e lê, co-i seu mioin de planeti e miggiæ de galasce, o l’existe solo che pe niatri. E quande o scuo do scipäio o chinià in scî mæ euggi, lê ascì o se n’anià. O meue e o nasce torna con ognidun de niatri, o l’à senso solo perché ghe camminemmo drento, ghe peregrinemmo drento e l’ammiemmo; semmo a consciensa viva da stramesuâ machina inconsciente de l’ëse. Oua öxelli mecanichi da-e ramme di erboi a-o tramonto pòrzan i seu canti a-o passo do peregrin.

English translation:
The Old Pilgrim

The old pilgrim set out along the country paths, and the lamps, which shone for no one knows whom and since no one knows when, accompanied him in silence on his way, which would lead him back to the beginning of his steps. For the world, however eternal it may be, is not made to last and lives only a day; precisely because we, who inhabit it, are destined to vanish, and it, with its millions of planets and thousands of galaxies, exists only for us. And when the darkness of the curtain falls upon my eyes, it too will depart. It dies and is born again with each of us, it has meaning only because we walk through it, we wander within it and behold it; we are the living consciousness of the boundless unconscious machine of being. Now mechanical birds from the branches of the trees offer their songs to the pilgrim’s passing step.
Ligurian:
A Neuveña Scinfonia

E uniche cöse che sorvevive a-i òmmi a l’é l’arte, a poexia, a muxica; me ven in cheu a Neuveña Scinfonia, ma ascì o cao d’euvia do Kubrick, o romanso do Burgess, che ne fan unna parodia, de quell’inno a-a raxon umaña co-a seu fæ into Progresso e inte l’amô universâ. De fæto, segondo çerti muxicòloghi, o finâ de quella scinfonia o l’é cacciou zu abrettio e, se ghe dæ a mente, o pâ in davei, inte çerti momenti, ninte de ciù de unna marcetta un pö tronfia; aveila missa pròpio à scimbolo de l’Union Europea, ch’a no fa atro che guerrezzâ, de drento e de feua, in nomme de l’amô universâ, a l’é giusto unna parodia, comme quella ch’o ne fa o Burgess. Ma l’arte a l’é coscì, un pittin se ne femmo portâ, in scê seu ae d’arcangeo, un pittin a ne pâ solo che unna marcetta trionfale e tronfia.

English translation:
The Ninth Symphony

The only things that outlive men are art, poetry, music; the Ninth Symphony comes to mind, but also Kubrick’s masterpiece, Burgess’s novel, which make a parody of it, of that hymn to human reason, with its faith in Progress and in universal love. Indeed, according to certain musicologists, the finale of that symphony is thrown together as best it could be, and, if you pay attention, it really seems, at certain moments, nothing more than a somewhat pompous little march; to have raised it precisely as the symbol of the European Union, which does nothing but wage war, within and without, in the name of universal love, is itself a parody, like the one Burgess makes of it. But art is like that: partly we let ourselves be borne aloft on its archangelic wings, partly it seems to us only a triumphal, pompous little march.
Ligurian:
A neuva pestegadda – 1

Mrs. Dailydead, a pscicanalista timorâ do Segnô, ch’a se scandalizza de oscenitæ che i paçienti ghe ræsan adòsso, a dovieiva saveilo che e çiötaie arrezan o mondo; ma che pscicanalista a l’é, s’a no sa ste cöse? Derê a tornua saña e normale da vitta ghe regna o Chaos originäio de tutti contra tutti. Chi avesse a seguessa de no ëse descoverto o commettieiva di atti nefandi; oua, pròpio quelli constituiscian l’essensa da vitta e l’intresso do tempo, co-o seu alternâse de luxe e scuo. Mrs. Dailydead a se tratëgne da scorrî e seu casañe che ghe contan de oscenitæ e l’é pe quello ch’a ne sarvià da-a pestegadda: a maotia ch’a no l’à de scintomi, che no s’accòrze nisciun d’aveighela, ma ch’a peu induâ tutta a vitta, e pe commun tutti pöi moimmo de quarcös’atro; tutti ghe l’emmo adòsso e ninte ne peu sarvâ.

English translation:
The new pestilence – 1

Mrs. Dailydead, the God-fearing psychoanalyst, who is scandalized by the obscenities her patients vomit upon her, ought to know that filth is what holds the world together; but what kind of psychoanalyst is she, if she doesn’t know these things? Behind the healthy, normal appearance of life reigns the primordial Chaos of all against all. Anyone certain of not being found out would commit unspeakable acts; now, those very acts constitute the essence of life and the weft of time, with its alternation of light and dark. Mrs. Dailydead refrains from driving away her clients who recount obscenities to her, and it is for that reason she will save us from the pestilence; the disease that has no symptoms, that no one realizes they have, but which can last a lifetime, and usually we all end up dying of something else; we all carry it within us and nothing can save us.