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Under the acacias bathed in dead winter's frost,
Driven in the wheel of life by a windy March,
The moon rises warm, but it's so far away
The too dirty street and the thick mud.

With sweet and gentle rays touch the star of the night
Even the chill of death in the old graveyard,
And the crosses sleep sad, bald in the path of fate,
Contents of oblivion undoubtedly thread.

By the old rotted gatepost,
Rake a child in the cold graveyard,
Vârtos is still the mud of the sleeping path,
But the trace that passes through the crosses is warm.

His shirt torn in the lap and hanging behind,
The sharp spring wind blows through it,
His feet are cold, and bare, barefoot,
For he broke his old boots this summer.

Only the vivid black eyes still answer his call
To which a sad life addresses perhaps.
Kneeling carefully, never forgetting
That grave where all his thoughts lie,

He sits next to a cross that was once made of beech,
He lights a candle and holds the cross in his arms,
While from the heavens the moon illuminates it all,
And he, gripped by dreams, complains in pain:

"It's March, mother, and it's spring again,
It's your day that I will never forget,
I light a candle for you, look at me again!
For I begged in the market crying and crying again.

I didn't bring you at least one flower as a gift,
As I brought you last year for your birthday,
But forgive me, mother, because I was no longer able
Not even to reach out a hand to be able to ask for something.

I kept turning around dozens of flower pots
Hoping that maybe some flower will give me,
But over all the commotion, no one cared,
From a poor poor child and his mother.

Wake up mother and take me close to you,
Steal my cruel life, in prayers you break it,
For it is hard for me here, and I want to be seized with fear,
On your birthday mommy, hold me in your arms."

How sad is the moon when it sets through the clouds,
And how sad the sun rises on the horizon!
In the cold cemetery they begin to gather
Morning shivers bathed in coolness.

A lame child clutching a cross
He falls asleep on a grave still sighing lightly
And laugh as the deceptive dream carries him away
Far from mud, hunger and longing.