L'últim 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.