Sweet hours in one's own homeland
Where all that the sun shines is a friend,
Life is the breeze that flies in its fields,
Death is pleasant and love is more tender!
Ardent kisses on the lips play,
Of a mother in the womb when she wakes up,
The arms seek to encircle the neck,
And the eyes smile when they look.
Sweet is death for one's own country,
Where all that the sun shines is a friend;
Death is the breeze for those who do not have
A country, a mother and a love!

INVIA LE CORREZIONI