What a beautiful funeral, what a crowd,
how many flowers and shadows, how much grief,
with his mutis the scene was left alone,
how many leaves fallen without dew
What silence in the voices, and how cold
for the dead friend. Moan full
of anguish the soul for the good soul,
how you hurt me, my mate.
Friendship and love are present,
the pen and the talent are in mourning,
mists are in the eyes, in the foreheads.
And I think seeing the funereal bustle
that for reasons of my shaggy brow
no one will go to my burial, nor will I, I think.
