The night is dark, and the wind whistles across the trees of Irati, compelling the wolf of the mountains to hide its brown head. The night is darksome, and a whirlwind of snow is drifting the flakes in heaps. It is a pleasant night for us, children of the mountains and of the tempests. It is a night which terrifies the Roman matrons, and makes the sybarite son of the Tiber shudder as he lies on his soft couch. ‘ We shall enter with strung bow into the gardens full of statues, into the palaces of marble, into the bedchambers hung with silken draperies. (…) The chieftain of the frontiers on hearing the “irrinzi” will mistake it for the noise of the hurricane, and we shall traverse the plains swift as the winds. The Romans crucified our fathers whom they took prisoners, and in revenge we will devastate their cities and tread down their fields. And by the light of the conflagrations, our sons, crowning the crests of the mountains, will intone hymns of victory.
‘ Sing, bard, sing‘ This is the hour of our raid, the owl screeches in the crevices, the wolf hides in the caverns, the eagle, timorous, thrusts its beak under the wing; because night is fearful to all creatures, save to us, sons of the mountains and of the tempest.
Autor: Arthur Lasenby Liberty (1843-1917)Fecha: 22/10/1901