OHJI  MA’

Fatìj cu’ li brazza, ohji ma’,
‘nfacci’ a cquessì mmèrze,
pi’ la Ripa ‘la Conca,
cu’ lu càudu, cu lu cchjòve,
cu’ la jilàma.
Stai sola da ‘na vita
e ppiénzi sèmpe.
Mmiézz’a li bbìti e a l’aulivi,
assuocchji la vija
vèerzu lu uàdu
e spiéri ca figliutu torna.

Cu’ la scurda,ohji ma’,
‘nd’à la casèddra,
ca pare l’ Arca di Noè,
pripàri la canìglia pi’ li puorci
e lu graudìniu pi’ li caddrine.
Assittàta ‘ncopp’a lu scannu,
capuzzij ‘nnant’a lu ffuocu
e pi’ la stanchézza
mancu ti suonni.
 

 Pripari la césta pi’ lu mircàtu,
ohji ma’,cu’ la minèsta,
cu’li ficu e ccu’ li ppèra.
Racinji cu’ li cristiani:
fa malutiémpu,
lu granu nu’ nasce.
T’addummànnunu di quiddru
figliu luntanu, e tu
mancu ti piènzi,
ca pur’iddru téne ‘nu panaru
chjìnu di frutti
ca so’ bèll’a bidéni,
ma so’ amàri.

OH, MOM!

Up hill and down hill,every and each land toiling is in your hands,oh, mom!
There at the Conca steep ravine,
sun scorching or rain raining,
or frosty bitter cold.
All your life alone,
all your life lost in thoughts.
You go on toiling under the grape-vines,
under the olive scanty shades,
while your eyes search around
for someone entering the hedge gate:
perhaps your son, at last, as you hope.
 

The night has come, oh, mom!,
and you’re safe in your little home,
a Noah’s ark indeed,
boiling the mash for your swine,
preparing the feeding for your chickens.
And then, sitting upon the stool, you begin your brave fight with Sleep, that tosses your tired head,there, in front of the fire.But you are so tired that not even a single dream does visit your sleep.

 
In the morning, you prepare the basket for market, oh, mom! filling it to the brim with greens,figs and pears.
There at the market, you enjoy the gossip
with the townspeople:
“Foul weather, indeed! Grain’s not growing!”
They ask you about your son,
that one living far away;
and you cannot even imagine
that he too has got a basket
full of fruits, fair to look at,
but, as to taste,
bitter sour.