Translation of the song Biddas boidas artist Luciano Pigliaru
Biddas boidas
Empty Villages
Ohi, ite sorte chi t'est tocada,
Oh, what a fate happened to you,
a lena morte ses cundennada:
you are sentenced to a slow death:
sa janna a issire tue m'as apertu,
you opened the door for me to exit,
est a partire dae su desertu.
it’s just like leaving from a desert.
Boid'est inoche totu su locu,
The whole place is empty here,
peruna boche, perunu jocu.
not even one voice, not even a play.
Faches biazu pro traballare
You are traveling to work
ma su corazu est a restare.
but the true courage is to remain.
Poberu babbu, est a passizu,
Poor father, he’s strolling around, 1
est un acabbu bocau a pizu,
it’s a pointless end,
in custa terra prena 'e bellesa
in this land full of beauty
est una gherra de poberesa.
it’s a war of poverty.
Non b'at de arpas prus armonias,
There are no more harp harmonies,
non b'at iscarpas, non b'at corrias.
no shoes, no shoelaces.2
Sa boche mala 'e sa sepoltura
The bad voice of the grave
ponet a un’ala donzi durcura.
puts aside every sweetness.
Non b'at de arpas prus armonias,
There are no more harp harmonies,
non b'at iscarpas, non b'at corrias.
no shoes, no shoelaces.
Sa boche mala 'e sa sepoltura
The bad voice of the grave
ponet a un’ala donzi durcura.
puts aside every sweetness.
Sunt sas iscolas mancu a midade,
The schools are full less than half,
figuras solas, betzas de edade,
solitary figures in old age,
est totu cantu in malu apretu,
everything is in bad need,
totu est prantu e malu isetu.
it’s all a crying and a bad omen.
Sunt sos pastores andande a buju
The shepherds are walking sadly
pro sos errores a soca in tuju
due to mistakes, with a rope on their neck,
in sa campagna morinde 'e gana
in the countryside they’re starving,
in sa montagna, in sa piana.
in the mountains, in the plains.
Cando sa cosa est a sucutu
When everything makes you sob
est che i’sa rosa in locu assutu,
it’s like a rose in a dry place,
est a bocare benes, dinari
you have to give away your goods, your money
e traballare unidos paris.
and to work hard all together.
Non b'at de arpas prus armonias,
There are no more harp harmonies,
non b'at iscarpas, non b'at corrias.
no shoes, no shoelaces.
Sa boche mala 'e sa sepoltura
The bad voice of the grave
ponet a un’ala donzi durcura.
puts aside every sweetness.
Non b'at de arpas prus armonias,
There are no more harp harmonies,
non b'at iscarpas, non b'at corrias.
no shoes, no shoelaces.
Sa boche mala 'e sa sepoltura
The bad voice of the grave
ponet a un’ala donzi durcura.
puts aside every sweetness.