I curse the paths of the grim reaper,
its macabre tricks,
I saw silence,
and bell tolling offerings.
I curse the night,
and its light breath,
that exhales solitude and shadows.
I curse the wet touch,
and the rust it breeds every time it comes,
alighting on our crosses.
I curse the hours,
and the ivy, with its green that devours,
the tombstones and the graves.
Damn the time,
and its black sands,
what a ruthless clock,
it burdens us with years,
an eternity dwelling in the grave,
wasting us away,
until the last visitor,
becomes part of this very place,
and nobody remembers us anymore...
Blessed the light that flickers on the candle,
blessed the flower...
...when someone comes to see us.