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Now the sun goes down to rest from its daily shining
How then have you come to an early grave 
Passing in a boisterous way from the lip of dawn
Rambling around the God swollen foot .
Wailing, crying and gnashing of teeth  prevent not the grave  from receiving its dusty guest.
At the shore of  Victoria beach, 
Here we were, hanging our lyre, pipe, and drums
Shedding tears at the shrouded view of a sandy host
The sea also arose in a sad mood.
Span my days! Full of sadness  from its genesis
Mother weep, relatives shed tears, whether that of crocodile – now i know
May be they all want to make an alien a nationale
The dead cry for the dead’
Only time will tell, when the beauty will sleep in abode of unconditional comfort.

Now! I can hear, the song of a songbird
Singing sweetly and softly,
Oh little bird! You are not sad like us
I am neither sad nor  lonely
But singing of the last embrace , when the saint are matching on
I am neither sad nor lonely
Rejoicing with the wise travellers that are free of debt the given the account of their individual marketing journey

Cry for Joy! Says oh nightingale 
For it is better to respond to the call  while  the dew is still wet on the grass
With a great welcoming party.
Than to be covered with burning shame at the end of a million lengthen years 
In the city of temporal shelter.
Haggling in an empty market, so long , with an empty purchase  where time and effort were spent  in a flashing memory
Vanity upon vanity

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