On The Death Of An Old Woman

Often I listen full of horror at the door

And when I arrive it seems to me that someone fled,

And her eyes see past me

Dreamily, as if they would see me elsewhere.

Thus she sits completely stooped in herself and listens

And seems far-off from the things around her,

However, she trembles when noise rushes at the window,

And then cries still, just like an anxious child.

And caresses her white hair with tired hand

And asks with paled glance: Must I go already?

And has a crazy fever: The little light in the altar

Went out! Where do you go? What has happened?