Long have I held the ambition to reach the clouds, returning to Fiume.
A thousand march to the holy land, the old appearance transformed into new.
Everywhere Blackshirts celebrate, with songs of youth, and Fasces rising into the clouds.
Having passed Rijeka, there is no need to look at the perilous heights.

Wind and thunder stir, brown flags flutter, transcending the mortal realm.
Forty-eight years have passed, in the snap of a finger.
Reaching for the moon in the Alps, catching turtles in Liguria, returning to Milan amidst laughter and talk.
Nothing in the world is difficult, if one but dares to scale the heights.