Drizzling, the fog
the steep hills climbs,
and the northwest wind torments
the howling, foaming sea:
but in the village streets
the seething vats send forth
the pungent smell of wine
and cheer the weary souls.
On fiery logs the roast
turns on its spit and crackles;
the hunter stands and whistles
and watches from his door
the flocks of birds that,
back upon reddish clouds,
like forlorn thoughts gyrate
at dusk, preparing to migrate.