Ligurian:
A-a staçion de provinsa

Quante l’é che semmo fermi inta staçion de provinsa co-o locomotô guasto? Mi ò perso o conto di giorni, di meixi e di anni. Semmo in sce un binäio mòrto e çerti viægiatoî se son angosciæ de stâ à aspëtâ chì che i operäi daggan recatto a-o locomotô e se ne son anæti via, verso di atri paixi, comme e rondaniñe e i barbouti, quande cangia a saxon. S’a cangesse pe in davei, a saxon, quande se peu arvî a pòrta de cà, e passâla, e sbattisela a-e spalle e sciortî feua into sô. Ma quello tempo o no l’é ciù o nòstro. Gh’é di grendi meghi, di grendi avvocati, che son chinæ d’in sciô treno e se cortivan un scitetto de leituga, ò de cöi, ò patatte, ò spinasci, franco a-o de là de colisse. Son abuxivi, scì, ma chi l’é ch’o no l’é abuxivo, tra de niatri, chi l’é ch’o no l’à perduo a speransa d’anâsene à cà e o no se rebella chì d’in gio sensa fâse ciù de domande? Da-a lonxi se vedde, a-o fondo de l’allea di çipresci, a statua de un cavaggeo co-a spâ nua ïsâ, chi ponta verso o çê, tanto che un bæxin o creuve de grixo o mondo; ò provou à arrivâ fin da-a statua, ma a stradda a l’é longa; di òmmi co-a caa gianca e di ferriòlli co-o scappusso vëgnan co-a testa bassa in senso conträio, e se ti ghe parli no te reprican, ma borboñan tra i denti quarcösa che no se peu accapî. Fòscia a statua a stà in çimma a-a tomba do guerrezzê ch’a representa e l’é quello che vorriëscimo savei. Ma no son ancon arriëscio à arrivâghe, con tutto che me son misso in cammin un muggio de vòtte, ò delongo dovuo vegnîmene in derê, sotta quello continuo bæxin. Da-a vexin a-o treno, amixi e compagni fan unna partia a-e carte, ò à scacchi. Da pe coscì ch’an renonçiou à partî, e ascì d’anâ à vedde cös’a peu mai ëse quella statua in fondo à l’allea de çipresci, sott’a-o bæxin.

English translation:
The provincial station

How long have we been stopped at the provincial station with the locomotive broken down? I’ve lost count of the days the months and the years. We’re on a dead-end track and some travelers got fed up with waiting for the workers to repair the locomotive and went off, toward other countries, like the swallows and the swifts, when the season changes. If only the season really would change, when one can open the door of the house, and pass through it, and slam it behind oneself and step out into the sun. But that time is no longer ours. There are great doctors, great lawyers, who got off the train and cultivate a little patch of land with lettuce, or cabbages, or potatoes, or spinach, just beyond the tracks. They’re squatters, yes, but who isn’t a squatter, among us, who hasn’t lost the hope of going home and doesn’t shuffle around here without asking themselves any more questions? From afar one sees, at the end of the avenue of cypresses, the statue of a knight with bare sword raised, pointing toward the sky, while a fine drizzle covers the world in gray; I’ve tried to reach the statue, but the road is long; men with white faces and hooded cloaks come the other way with their heads bowed and if you speak to them they don’t answer, but mutter something between their teeth that you can’t make out. Perhaps the statue stands over the tomb of the warrior it represents and that is what we’d like to know. But I haven’t yet managed to get there, though I’ve set out many times, I’ve always had to turn back, beneath that endless drizzle. Near the train, friends and companions play a game of chess or cards. A long time ago they gave up on leaving, and even on going to see what that statue at the end of the avenue of cypresses could possibly be, under the light rain.