Ligurian:
A vitta a l’é unna reua

Dixan che a vitta a l’é unna reua, ma no l’é miga vea; a vitta a no gia pe nint’afæto, no cangia mai ninte, inta vitta. No gh’ei mai dæto a mente che i vegi de quand’ëi zoeni ean pægi à quelli de oua? A mæxima tristessa, i mæximi nasi che coa, e baisse da-e bande da bocca, e rappe, i cavelli gianchi ò e teste peiæ; e dònne ciù brutte che i òmmi, i òmmi ciù prepotenti che e dònne: tutto o l’é pægio à quelli tempi. E i zoeni? I zoeni ascì en delongo quelli: o mæximo presummî, a mæxima preteisa d’ëse stæti lô i primmi à savei comme se vive, à descreuve a bellessa e a bruttessa do mondo, insemme con l’amô e a coæ de rebellion, de vengiâ e ingiustiçie, o desprexo pe-i vegi e e seu lentesse, e seu debolesse; e no l’é perché i zoeni vëgnan vegi e lascian o pòsto à di atri: na, i zoeni son pròpio delongo i mæximi, no invegiscian mai e i vegi ascì, no son mai stæti zoeni; se mai che a vitta a l’é unna reua, a l’é unna reua ferma. Ma a parrieiva ciufito un palaçio, con tante stançie, inte ògni stançia ti gh’ê ti: quande t’ê nasciuo, quande t’ê anæto à scheua pe-a primma vòtta, quande ti t’ê laureou, quande ti t’ê maiou, quande t’ê anæto à travaggiâ, quande t’ê anæto in penscion, quande t’æ arröbou, quande t’an arröbou, quande t’æ fæto a famme, quande t’ê anæto in galea, quande ti t’ê ammoutio, quande t’ê mòrto. Fermo inte quella açion, ti continui à ësighe e à fâ e mæxime cöse, anche quande ti te n’ê anæto. Fòscia, co-e ciave giuste, ti porriësci intrâ inte tutte ste stançie pe unna segonda ò unna tersa vòtta; e descreuve dapeu che anche e stançie de atre persoñe son pæge, ò pöcoassæ. Semmo tutti figgi de quarchedun pægio à niatri e donca semmo lê e poemmo fâ solo e delongo e mæxime cöse.

English translation:
Life is a wheel

They say life is a wheel, but it isn’t true at all; life doesn’t turn one bit, nothing ever changes in life. Have you ever noticed that the old people from when you were young were the same as those of today? The same sadness, the same dripping noses, the dribble at the corners of the mouth, the wrinkles, the white hair and the bald heads; the women uglier than the men, the men more overbearing than the women; everything is the same as in those days. And the young? The young, too, are always the same: the same presumption, the same claim to having been the first to know how to live, to discover the beauty and ugliness of the world, along with love and the urge to rebel, to avenge injustices, the contempt for the old and their slowness, their weaknesses; and it isn’t because the young grow old and make way for others: no, the young are precisely the same, they never grow old, and the old were never young either; if anything, life is a wheel – a wheel standing still. It would seem rather like a building with many rooms, and in each room there’s you: when you were born, when you first went to school, when you graduated, when you got married, when you went off to work, when you retired, when you stole, when you were robbed, when you went hungry, when you went to prison, when you fell ill, when you died. Frozen in that act, you keep on being there and doing the same things, even after you’ve gone. Perhaps, with the right keys, you could enter all these rooms a second or third time, and then discover that other people’s rooms are the same too, or nearly so. We are all children of someone just like us, and so we are him, and we can only and always do the same things.