San Martino

The fog to the bare hills

soars in the thin rain,

and below the wind

howls and churns the sea;

yet through the hamlet’s alleys

from the fermenting casks

goes the pungent scent of wines

to touch a soul with glee.

On the firewood, turns

the skewer crackling:

stands the hunter whistling,

on the threshold to see

in the reddening clouds

flocks of black birds,

like exiled thoughts

as in the dusk they flee.

• Giosuè Carducci