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It was the time of year when the gray mullet of the Comacchio Valley are excellent grilled, seasoned with pomegranate juice, and when, as the poet would say, the variously colored songbirds are driven by the first frosts to our fields in search of gentler climes, and the poor innocent little creatures get caught in one of the many snares and then threaded on a skewer.
- ...ed io sol uno
- M’apparecchiava a sostenere la guerra