Those who die while we’re unaware
And grow older in the graves,
I wonder, what do they think of?
Are they pessimistic?
Do they have the same dreams as us
Or is it only the living who feel pessimistic and dream?
Do they mock our agonies,
Or do they shed tears in secret like us?
Why, then, do they smile whenever we mention them,
And why do they sit stealthily among us,
Without asking for permission,
Dance and revel,
And release from our windows
The doves of speech and the bees of kisses,
If we feel tired, fall silent
Or lose hope?