The wind that blew cold from the north has slowed down,
First of May in the village and I hear silence speak.
Workers day, the smithy’s hammer lies idle on the anvil.
In the big town, toilers are marching today carrying flags
and banners, demanding equal rights, and work for all.
They will walk past banks, palaces, haughty architecture,
that has no problem with... rights. Ah, this austerity and
now it is raining on the parade and the wind sneezes, but
on the green field, I see millions of watery pearls and each
one reflects the overcast sky that promises nothing except
more drizzle. Yet it doesn’t deter the working man, it is
good to meet others, drink a glass of cheap red wine, eat
meat roasted on a grill, slices of homemade bread and
hope life will get better tomorrow.