Monotonous the deceased,
Without vital flame he lies.
The feet drag themselves,
With the little strength that’s left to ignite,
Of that, which is the visiting soul
With screaming mute tears.

The art of dedicating oneself to the brief encounter.
Time does not collide where it does not exist.
And, suspended in that infinite existence,
Levitates that lachrymal scream
Over the known Nobody.
Then comes a breath of life.

So much pain in the chest!
They burn, burn plenty!
Prisoners of the brief reunion of the dead,
Soon the duet extinguishes.
The vision awakens.
Hope was born.