The fog gl 'bristling hills
drizzling salt
and under the mistral
screams and whitens the sea;
but the streets of village
from ribbolir de 'tini
be the 'sour smell of wine
' s soul to cheer.
Turn on '
strains turned the spit and sputtered:
is a hunter whistling
on the' door to gaze
between the reddish clouds
stprmi d ' birds blacks,
com 'exiles thoughts
migrate in twilight.
Paraphrase
The salt fog, along with the rain, the hills covered with bare trees and dry and the sea waves and slamming against the rocks below the cold wind from the north-west, but the streets of the country, the 'smell of fermenting wine in the barrels cheer the hearts of people. The spit turns on the grill while the hunter is whistling on 'door to look between the red clouds, flocks of birds like the thoughts of people fleeing into the evening.
Claudio
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