No more of those promenades,
Near the sea.
No more of those windy shades,
Under the tree.
No more of the hazel evenings,
I shared with you.
No more I can see the grass,
Covered with dew.
Where in the small life so soon,
My eyes have been?
No more I can see those beautiful,
Complacent scenes.
Upon me lies a heavy wooden slab.
Am I under my own grave?
Then speaks a voice,
From another compartment somewhere,
“The mean souls left us here!
Our eyes were just used to explore the world.
As fools, we thought –
‘It is the majestic life God did offer!’
And the mean soul left us,
Hence like a vagabond.
To start its voyage once more,
With new eyes of a new born.”
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