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San Martino di San Martino di Carducci

The fog in the hills gl'irti

drizzling salt and below the mistral
screams and whitens the m ar;

but for streets of the village
by bubbling de'tini
is the sour smell of wine
souls to cheer.

Gira su'ceppi
turned the spit and sputtered:
is a hunter
whistling up the door to gaze

between the reddish clouds
flocks of birds blacks,
com 'Exiles thoughts
migrate in the twilight.

Paraphrase
The salt fog, along with the rain, the hills covered with bare trees and dry and the sea waves slamming against the rocks below and the cold wind of north-west.
the streets of the country, the harsh smell of the wines, which ferment in the barrels is to enliven the soul.
The spit crackling logs on and runs on the hunter's whistle is the doorway to watch flocks of birds blacks in the hour of sunset, as the thoughts of men migrate into the evening.
Alessandra