From the moment that the festival enters its final stages, hearts and minds of all who have lived the Sanfermines with intensity buey themselves in the consolation which lasts too long -356 days- with the ery of "Not so long to go!".

 And when the New Year arrives, groups of friends will celebrase together, singing the song with the countdown to the Fiesta of Pamplona: "First of January, second of February, third of March, fourth of April, fifth of May, sixth of june, seventh of July: San Fermín!" These are good times and even better excuses to get together nostalgically, and even more in the sure hope that "there's not so long to go to the glorious San Fermín". 

But in the dying hours of the fiestas, which are savoured second by second with understandable miserliness, voices sing out, with the same joy with which they have l¡ved the fiestas to the full, "pobre de mí, pobre de mí, que se han acabau las fiestas de San Fermín' ('Poor me, poor me, the Festivities of San Fermín have finished'). And they draw their tired legs up to jump with more force in an end to the fiesta which never reafly finishes. Then a simple match is enough to fill the streets with flickering lights which follow the primitive rhythm of the drum. What a happy sorrow we find in the "pobre de mí"! Bodies which -and ¡t is true- can't take any more, but nobody gives in and everyone participates, giving themselves fully to the dying final moments of the Sanfermines. But the party is not over. In the heart of everyone ¡t is embedded and will wait impatiently for the fleeting flight of the first rocket of next year's fiestas.