The little men, little women, sad companions,

Today they scatter flowers blue and red

On their crypts, which light up shyly.

They act like poor dolls before death.

O! how they appear full of fear and humility,

Like shadows standing behind black bushes.

In the autumn wind the weeping of the unborn complains,

Also one sees lights lose their way.

The sighs of lovers breathe in the branches,

And there the mother with the child rots.

The round dance of the living seems unreal

And fantastically scattered in the evening wind.

Their life is so confused, full of dim plagues.

God take pity on the women’s hell and agony

And these hopeless lamentations of death.

The lonely ones walk silently in the hall of stars.