Translated by A. Z. Foreman - The Tomb of Ma**ila the Slave Girl lyrics

The urn itself speaks I, urn of cremation, speak. The ash is a baby. A slave-girl lies in me, born in her home, her father's twin child. After she died, her mother entrusted her to me, and told me "I bore her myself for you, your daughter to be." Her in the dark I nourished. Night was her nurse. At the breasts of night she s**ed. The breastmilk was sleep itself. She does not speak. Yet bearing witness in sleep everlasting she teaches us how birth is worse than d**h. Not one whirled care now wracks her, she's not on the lips of her mother. No wool is put in her fingers to pull apart. She leads an eternal dead of night, without light, without living feeling. Life's obsequies can't oppress her now. And while I speak myself, this little baby keeps sleeping untroubled. Slumber bathes her in constant rain. Ma**ila was the name her master gave her. The Muses adorned this place through duteous love of her lord. Here lies Ma**ila. Sleep is the milk she s**s from the breasts of night. But dark and the coffin are her cradles.