She stood there, gazing at the expanded blossoms of the pomegranate on the balcony-blossoms which seemed to her like an additional supply of crimson cockades-and listening to the sharp notes of the chaffinch, which resembled the echo of a distant fusillade.
Zutik zegoen, balkoi aldera begira; granadondoko lore irekiek beste intsignia odoltsuen antza zuten, eta, txontaren txio-txioa entzun zuenean, fusileria oihartzun urruna etorri zitzaion gogora.