L'últim tirabol
Era jove,era berguedà,
estava a punt de fer vint-i-tres anys,
s'acostava Corpus,se li veia en els ulls
encesos com espurnes de Patum.
Mig poble deia que era un bon sagal,
l'altre mig que era un bordegàs,
i la noia que estimava
no li fotia cas.
Dimecres de Patum vam quedar
a la barana però no s'hi va
presentar,
en un revolt,amb el seu cotxe vell
va deixar la pell.
Des d'un racó sentia els gegants,
la música acompanyava
unes llàgrimes galtes avall
quan vaig tornar a la plaça.
Potser va ser la màgia de la Patum,
o la barreja i la cervesa,
però aquell fet no va ser per mi
pas una sorpresa.
Em va semblar veure'l arribar
amb el barret i el mocador nusat,
em va dir que Sant Pere té per costum
deixar als berguedans
fer un darrer salt de Patum.
Amb una mirada de complicitat
i amb un somriure com tenia ell sol,
de bracet agafats vam saltar
l'últim Tirabol.
The Last Tirabol
He was young, he was from Berguedà,
he was about to turn twenty-three,
Corpus was approaching, it could be seen in his eyes
lit up like sparks of Patum.
Half the town said he was a good lad,
the other half said he was a troublemaker,
and the girl he loved
didn't pay attention to him.
On Patum Wednesday we agreed
to meet at the railing but he didn't
show up,
in a turn, with his old car
he lost his life.
From a corner I heard the giants,
the music accompanied
tears rolling down my cheeks
when I returned to the square.
Maybe it was the magic of Patum,
or the mix and the beer,
but that event was not
a surprise to me.
I thought I saw him coming
with his hat and his handkerchief around his neck,
he told me that Saint Peter has the custom
of letting the people from Berguedà
make a final jump of Patum.
With a complicit look
and a smile as he used to have,
holding arms we jumped
the last Tirabol.