1. It is not the tomb that hides you from my eyes,
But the bliss from which you whisper to me.

2. If a son of thirty four could be ransomed,
The souls of your lovers would ransom you.

3. I am certain you are in Paradise my son,
When you became a martyr of wealth and religion.

4. The bliss with which they have cloaked you,
With triumph satisfies you, O Petro Piaggini.