On the day that I die
do not bury me with my people,
let them be in peace.
Let the Aurizeneas, sporting their timidity,
their beauty and the family name,
reach the top of that hill.
Let the Muruas rest at last
with their intelligence
and their noisy eyes.
Let my friends continue resting.
And let the bones of my enemies
be eaten by worms.
Enjoy the party the day I die.
Forbid funeral rites, deny my good name,
drink a glass of wine.
Read something, perhaps a poem, but not mine.
And fleeing my memory
with a flare beyond the horizon, forget me.
Cast off my ashes on the day that I die
in a circle turned into silence.
Rest that day and leave me.
And if anyone cries
tell him that if the memory is sad
life was worth it.