1. Like fading dahlias are the maidens
Withered in the generosity of wishes and gifts

2. And like snow above the dying of birds
Relaxed upon her eyelids is sleep

3. And like a wayfarer alone she knelt
Murmuring lamentations behind the lost traces

4. And she coughs in her chest evenings
Spitting melted sorrow from mud

5. And one day her slain brother gestured:
Come, wet your hand with my blood

6. So she wailed like a princess become
By Tatar hands the lowest of captives

7. Is this me? And she repeats the question
And searches for her face in the mirror

8. Where has the fullness of my spring shirt gone?
So where am I? In my shirt only traces

9. And a shy question followed
By a question, on her lips shivering

10. And where is the mattress that absorbed me?
Does it inherit the debris of bare branches?

11. And one evening silence crept
Like a plague intending the gravest matters

12. And the ceiling sways across from the wall
Palms of thorns, muted intentions

13. And in the morning two neighbors brought her
A shroud, it accepted the inscriptions and the sewing

14. It opens the book and burns the incense
And takes what is in the depth of the hidden

15. So she insulted yesterday's shroud returning
And dragged it from the ashes of demise

16. And she waits for the visitors like a mother
Watching for the return of her slain children

17. So no specter of love breaks through to her
Neither the coughing of pain nor the wheezing of corners

18. And the evening would stretch out stars to her
Filled with gifts

19. And the sun would fold before setting
Adorning her visions with the loveliest secrets

20. And the dawn would kneel, filling
Her windows with the softest greetings

21. And she would carry from the blaze of its flickers
Stories of nightfall in murmuring bundles

22. And she was, as the reminiscent tell
Of brightest complexion and sharpest features

23. Yet look at the ladies of prestige
When she was a daughter of the most wretched subjects

24. She stumbled from the countryside, the year of locusts
Partaking of the purest sins

25. And at the start of forgetting, autumn urged
To her the fiercest rushes of wind

26. So it shattered the cups of love in her hands
And hid the shards in her chest

27. And left behind remnants of moaning
Then returned to end even the remnants