But we have heard rumour of the Mistral.
It is a cold wind that blows from the heights,
Day after day it sweeps steadily down,
Cold and from above, changing the air
In the lowlands.
We are dwellers in lowlands
And our air has been breathed before. It is
A sultry air: men talk to each other
In haze and their words are close and fevered.
A warm breeze crosses our little hillocks,
And then the dust settles down again.
Not near the Alps do we live.
Great Genius,
Grant us an electric climate! Touch us
With snowy fire, send the Mistral to sweep
Bare our plain and proclaim the gaiety
Of altitudes, the glory of clear stars,
The exaltation of the sun burning
The rare air. Great Genius, send the Mistral!