RIMA LXI

  When my hours of sickness
and insomnia are evident,
on the side of my bed,
  who will sit down?

  When I am about to expire
and I stretch out a trembling hand,
searching for another hand,
  who will clasp it?

  When death turns the surface
of my eyes glassy,
and my eyes are still open,
  who will close them?

  While the bell tolls
(if it tolls at my funeral),
when they hear it,
  who will say a prayer?

  When my pallid remains
are covered by the earth,
above the forgotten grave,
  who will come to weep?

  Who, then, on another day
when the sun shines again,
that I lived in this the world,
  who will remember?