Heartfelt poetry

If you want to get to the heart of this region, you will need to lend an ear and listen to its poetry …

E tu, mon vilatge,
De vinha, d ’oliu e de mèl,
Tu, mon vilatge,
Calor, torrada, infèrn...
Podètz cantar cigalas,
Es pas filh de la nuèit.
Sus nòstra tèrra blanca,
Es pas nascut de res...
E tu, mon vilatge,
Sègle après sègle bastit,
De sang e de carn d’òmes,
Sègles per sègles noirit.
Podètz cantar, cigalas !
Nòstra plaça es aicí.
Crida la tramontana,
Nos farà pas partir.
E dins mon vilatge
Quand la vinha va mal,
Dins mon vilatge
Nos cal barrar l’ostal.
Podètz cantar, cigalas !
Si lo vin va mal,
Sus nostra tèrra blanca
Marcelin tornarà.
Claudi Martí

And you, my village, of vineyards, olive trees and honey. You, my village: the heat, the cold, and hell… You may sing, cicadae, it is no son of the night. On this, our white land, it is not born out of nothing. You, my village, built of the blood and the flesh of men, century upon century. Century upon century, nourished. You may sing, cicadae! We belong here. The tramontane screams, but it will not make us go away. And in my village, when the vineyard does poorly, in my village the doors have to be shut. If the wine does poorly, on this, our white land, Marcelin Albert will be back.