September, let’s go. It is time to migrate. 
Now in the land of Abruzzi, my shepherds 
leave the dwellings and go toward the sea: 
They go down to the wild Adriatic, 
how green it is like the pastures of the mountains. 

They drank deeply at the alpine springs. 
May a taste of native water 
remain in their exiled hearts as a comfort, 
which deludes their thirst along the way. 
They have renewed the rod of hazelnut. 

And they go along the ancient sheep track on the plain, 
almost as through a silent river of grass, 
following the vestiges of their forefathers. 
Oh, voice of the one who first knows for the first time 
the shimmering of the sea! 

Now the flock walks along the coast, 
and the air is unchanged. 
The sun lights up the blond living wool, 
which hardly differs from the sand. 
It swishes, it tramples, such sweet noises. 

Ah, why am I not with my shepherds?