It rained on the orphan peaks
of the inert meadows…

That North wind blew,
condemning our sorrows,
melting our dreams,
predicting the present…

We took our capes,
we occluded our nests,
we concocted our luck…

We crossed the ocean,
without destination or path,
with the soul of the peasant,
that only has a mill
and a little moonshine…

We only have your inheritance,
everything you taught me, mother,
that between all this throng,
we must only be strong!