is sour and sweet, winter nights,
heard by the fire and fumes throbbing,
distant memories
slowly rising to the sound of the chimes that sing in the mist. Happy
bell throat
powerful that, despite his age, alert and in good condition,
launches cry faithfully religious,
like an old soldier who sail under the tent! My soul is
cascade and when he is bored and wants
populate their songs with cold air at night,
often happens that his voice seems weak
hoarse rattle of a wounded who forget
next to a lake of blood, under a pile dead,
and dies, without moving, in huge efforts.
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