Mark how our shadow, mark, Movitz mon frère, Wraps itself, dark, in a bubble.
Purple and gold turn to rags in the air, Stones tossed from a shovel.
See, Charon waves from the wild river's race, Three times the sexton, too, granting us grace, Your grape squeezing days are a whisper. Therefore, old Movitz, come help me to raise
A gravestone over our sister.

O longed for, pined for, that hideaway hut, Under the sighing green branches,
Where Time, Death, Beauty, and Ugliness, rot All now into ashes
Never did Envy uncover your path,

Nor did fair Fortune, in flight above earth, Visit your tombs in their shadows.
Enmity armed, what think you of its worth?

Reverently, he breaks his arrows.

The little bell rings to the great bell's redound There stands the Cantor with flowers.
Choirboys sing hymns while they're brawling around:

They sanctify these bowers.

Graves mark the way through the Temple's churchyard, Trodden with rose leaves now withered and hard, Rotten old planks, wooden biers.
Queuing, the mourners, in black robes attired, Bow low their heads and weep tears.

Now she can rest from her fistfights and balls, Yes, Mister Löfberg, your wife here.
There by the grass you stare, thin-necked and tall,

Was she your whole life's care?

Cruel death tore her from the Danto today: With her died all of our good times and play: Who's in command of the drink now?
She had a thirst, but mine's greater. I'd say We've all got a thirst to shrink now.