In the old night, knock- knock,
knocking at my door:
-Where are you coming from, oh my soul?
-I come dead, almost dead.
I barely recognized her
so changed she was;
bringing swallows with
their wings all broken.
I sent her to make supper
of the best delicacies there was
-Where are you coming from, oh my beloved
that I barely recognize you?
But my soul hushed,
Looked and didn't answer;
and its famous eyes
how many sorrows there were!
I sent her to make the bed
with the best linen she had:
above, purple Damascus,
underneath fine cambraia
-Sleep, sleep, oh my soul,
-sleep, and, to cradle you,
my mouth is singing
wishing to cry...