| While the evening colors of tired
|
| Gilded sunset at the watchtowers
|
| Little Ophelia, dressed in white
|
| She goes to meet the night, beautiful and barefoot
|
| In her hands wreaths of flowers
|
| Reflections of dreams in her hair
|
| In her thoughts the thousand colors
|
| Of life and death, of wakefulness or sleep
|
| Ophelia, what do you feel when
|
| The voice from the stands
|
| She announces that it is time already
|
| And another day she dies?
|
| Ophelia, you see inside the green
|
| Of the water of the moat
|
| In the flashes that the trout makes
|
| Changing of color?
|
| Because you wore the purest robe
|
| Why did you melt your blond hair?
|
| Run to the bridegroom, you are perhaps afraid
|
| Did he find them not long, not beautiful?
|
| What words are on your lips
|
| Who was the poet or what poem?
|
| The falcon in its wide circles knows this
|
| And only your sweet madness knows?
|
| Ophelia, silk and black shadows
|
| They wrap you up light
|
| And you will hear, sleeping now
|
| Lute cadences ...
|
| Ophelia, you can't know how many
|
| Events you have seen the world
|
| Or maybe you know and you will tell
|
| With magical words ...
|
| Ophelia, your words to the wind
|
| They get lost over time
|
| But who will know will find them
|
| In corroded jingles ... |