The Belice Earthquake – Lu Tirrimotu Di Lu Belice

LU TIRRIMOTU DI LU BELICE

Chianciti, Siciliani, a vuci forti
E li robbi vistitili alluttati,
Lu tirrimotu siminau la morti,
Di lu Belici in tutti li cuntrati.

 

Funna la notti  ed   era senza luna,
Tirribili ‘nfuriava la turmenta,
Lu roggiu ‘ntra d’istanti battia l’una,
La luci d’ogni casa era gia’ spenta.

 

Lu mari era ‘ntimpesta e lu maistrali,
Tagghenti comu lama di cuteddu,
Mitia pirsuni voscura ed armali.
Li trona fabbricati a Muncibeddu

 

Scutianu l’ariu   cu fraguri orrennu,
Li lampi, li surruschi e li   saitti
Parevanu tizzuna di lu ‘nfemu;
Ristau ‘mpitratu d’ omu ca li vitti.

 

Quannu l’apucalitticu scussuni
‘Mmistiu ruggennu li centri abitati,
Durmevanu mischini li pirsuni,
E ntra lu sonnu foru massacrati.

 

Cupria la notti ddu flagellu immani
Cu lu mantellu so` ch’era alluttatu,
Ma l’alba l’appuneva a lu nnumani
All’occhiu di la genti stralunatu.

 

Gintuzzi   boni, chi pietà sintiti
Curriti tutti cu picuna e pali
Ad esumari li morti e li firiti,
Già   vurvicati sutta li puntali.

 

Curriti tutti monaci e parrini,
Binidiciti a st’animi affannati.
Ancili di lu celu e cherubini
A cuspettu di Diu l’apprisintati.

 

Peppino Collurafici

THE BELICE EATHQUAKE

Cry o Sicilians   with loud voice,
And mourning   clothes now wear,
The earthquake   death around spread
Of  Belice around all the country side.

 

Deep was the   night and without moon,
Dreadfully was   raging the tempest,
The clock   momentarily struck one,
Down were the   lights in every home.

 

Stormy was the   sea and the west wind
Sharp, as a   sharpened knife blade,
Downing was   animals and woods alike.
The thunder in   Mongibello made,

 

Shaking were the air with horrific clamor,
The lightning, the flashes, the bolts…
Seemed flames from hell,
Those who saw them petrified were.

 

When the   apocalyptic quake,
Roaring hit the   inhabited towns,
Tired, were   sleeping the people,
And in the sleep   most killed were.

 

Hushing was the   night the cosmic ruin,
With its cloak as   she was in mourning,
But dawn was   showing in the morrow,
To the living   people staring eyes.

 

Oh good people   who pity feel,
All go there with   picks and shovels,
To exhume the   wounded and the dead,
Under the big   rocks already buried.

 

All you go too,   monks and priests,
With love bless   these afflicted souls.
Angels of Heaven   and cherubim,
Take them to the   presence of the Lord.

 

Translation by Nino Russo

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