Here I stand, in front of the grave
Filled with little white stones.
And the white dress wears the young bride
Covered with the lid of darkness.
The boisterous wind blows,
Brings the smell of the flowers in bloom,
Soughs in the culms of grass and leaves
Which, forced to run, stay still in one place,
Fastened to the ground by their roots,
Tied to the stem by their petioles.
And my hairs, too, dance rapidly,
And their moves are various,
As the beautiful music of the wind
Grips them into a rampageous ball
Of free spins, thunder claps and reverse turns.
But they stand firm on my head,
As if glued to the surface,
Allowed to move only their bodies.
And they swim in the pool of perfumes
Brought by the wind
From the violet hyacinths and yellow daffodils.
And the wind invites the dark clouds.
They are on the horizon, with the storm
Hidden in their heavy bellies.
And as the storm joins the ball,
The dances become faster and brisker.
And with this ball on my head
And the storm in my heart,
I stand in front of the grave
Filled with the little white stones,
Still as the mountains and silent as the outer space,
Where the young bride rests.
And the noise I hear
Makes me want to drown in the silence
Of the little white stones.
I wish I could be the one lying in this grave,
While the young bride would enjoy the ball.
She wanted to live but died,
And the death was sudden,
Came as this boisterous wind
And stole her life.
I did not want to live,
I tried to take my life,
Yet I survived.
I would give my life,
So the young bride could live.
I am ready to die.