Fifty Bad Translations
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La nebbia agli irti colli piovigginando sale, e sotto il maestrale urla e biancheggia il mar; ma per le vie del borgo dal ribollir de’ tini va l’aspro odor dei vini l’anime a rallegrar. Gira su’ ceppi accesi lo spiedo scoppiettando: sta il cacciator fischiando su l’uscio a rimirar tra le rossastre nubi stormi d’uccelli neri, com’esuli pensieri, nel vespero migrar.
The fog on the rugged hills drizzling rises, and under the mistral the sea howls and whitens; but through the streets of the village from the boiling of the vats the harsh smell of the wines went to cheer the souls. The spit turns on the burning logs crackling: the hunter stands whistling at the door to gaze among the reddish clouds flocks of black birds, like exiled thoughts, migrate in the vespers.