Su Votu Abarrat

Before the road, the stone Before the stone, the wind And the wind already knew your name On the peak of San Lorenzo I laid my hands Near eighty nuraghi keep watch over the roads So many people have passed you can sense the rich earth The land says nothing, the land remembers Torres, Doria, Aragon, and the wind, and the wind In forty-eight the last Doria surrenders They made us the centre And the centre held And whoever climbs to the village Nujvi! Nujvi! Three shoulders, three trades Nujvi! Nujvi! One voice only The yellow of the harvests The green of the meadows The colour of the sky Elsewhere the form has changed Here, it has not They called us slow to progress We carry nine hundred kilos held upright We carry sixteen on the poles, four on the ropes The tabernacle holds and the village breathes Behind the closed door, the women dress her Gold given over centuries The men carry The women dress her And the Sleeping Virgin waits Eight evenings, the Apostles Eight evenings, the Apostuladu Eight evenings we bow down Eight evenings And an ancient hymn rises in Catalan Before Santa Croce Paul raises the sword The palm breaks Nujvi! Nujvi! The form has changed, here, it has not Nujvi! Nujvi! The vow remains Nujvi! Nujvi! The vow remains Nujvi! The vow remains The wind goes back down to Anglona and it still knows your name