I never console myself,
nor do I want to rejoice;
the ships are at the port,
and they want to collar.
Most of the people go
to overseas lands ,
And I, lassa sore!,
How should I do?
Vassen 'in another country,
and no he sends me to tell;
I I remain deceived;
there are so many sighs,
that make great war against me
the night with the god,
neither in heaven nor on earth
it doesn't seem to me may I be!
The ships are in the cells:
'at a good time' may they go,
and my love with them,
and the people who has to go.
O father creator,
to the port leads them,
who go to serve
of your holy Cross.
But I pray, Dolcietto,
that you know my pain,
that less facie a sonnet
and send it to Sorìa,
for I cannot please
the night nor the day.
In overseas land
is my life.

SOUMETTRE LES CORRECTIONS