When ever I hear a round abbot,
With foalele-ncinse and ruddy face,
Telling the way life is pain
And that repentance is pleasure,
I wonder: \'It may be that to know
How is life as ed to be?. "

Night of her sparkling with thousands of stars,
Weak beam passes pay my
Ulicioara her tight, old walls,
Talking, laughing and crying sounds in the ears;
Voices stray pass through broken windows
And the door closed, the building empty.

Colo., near the lamp, in a small ietac,
See a girl who makes string-n ac;
Her face is a pale weak crude,
Her eyes are upset, eyelids sweat,
Fingers ran fine needle bearing:
She sews eyes on a cake;
Eggplant-e lip, no blood,
Her eyes can not cry the upset.

On why she was born into the world,
A poor leaf on oceanu-n Foam,
A poor shadow, orphaned and poor,
The crowd that nobody ntreabă n?
From dawn until dark black-and late
You see a white veil veil
What always works ... it just empty pane,
Cold and insomnia, tears and disease.
Everything I can understand the world Tonight
It ceases to work ... that from hunger-starts.

Negustoru one\'s sails before,
Expensive and diligent work of the holy hours,
He has a brilliant thick fingers
For those nights I sew cloth;
Duchess opens, c-a gallant rush,
In sewing the tears of a weak hand:
Blades soft where ţesură days
Order and poor sleeping baby,
White as snow falling in flakes;
But how are made, are good giulgi.

When you come to you this, child,
Look in the mirror and you cry for mercy:
Want to see even better, you keep a good mind
In unfortunate, sweet and good,
Without a fulcrum, not expected
Death than that one is right ...

In this life full of misery
Only her mate is a bee
Lost - you know how - the old street.
It permeated her voice to the ear,
Opening the window, enter one leaves
From flowers to sleep and to stay indoors.
The love the two proletarian:
An insect-human, a fly.

The girl sitting on the thoughts, cheerful bee
The notions of lips-and s-hook,
As you would say, you know you have not really
As that of your mouth-and the sweetest flower?
For you are beautiful, even as a holy
Your eye and the sweet I-ncântă shaded.

*

One day, baby dies: to-understand,
Death only know anger law.
Put her in a coffin. Her face held the
It was deeper, but still beautiful.
They put flowers on her body at the fin leading ...
What transpires in the shroud of noble in!
The window\'s open: spring full
Penetrates through her, but poor bee
The field no longer runs, but about face is worn,
Încunjură dead head and mouth;
It flies close and closer,
And with his friend wants him bury a sudden it ...

So it happens to hear any abbot,
With foalele-locked and ruddy face,
Telling the way life is pain
And that repentance is pleasure,
I wonder: \'It may be that to know
How is life as ed to be? "