la tua faccia da bandito
Twelve masked banditos, tearing across a plain on their jet-black steeds All is still but for the rippling muscles of the horses they whisper on.
Twelve pairs of mascara eyes staring straight through the prairies of wafting clovers, To a company of carriages entering the town of bejewelled steeples.
Twelve pairs of nostrils twitching in unison, aroused by the horse sweat, fear, And trampled flowers, rising from underneath their high stirrups.
Twenty four eardrums daily murdered by humming flies and biting mosquitoes, Or some blown out by pistols discharging in the close skirmishes at dusk.
Twelve hearts assailed by the fear that, were they to close their eyes, behind their masks, Inwardly they would drown in the crush of their brotherly love.
Twelve lidless banditos riding, and whispering to their horses, before the sweetly smelling clovers.