Far away my sister is moving in her crib.

The dead ones are like that,

always the last to quiet.

Because, however long they lie in the earth,

they will not learn to speak

but remain uncertainly pressing against the wooden bars,

so small the leaves hold them down.

Now, if she had a voice,

the cries of hunger would be beginning.

I should go to her;

perhaps if I sang very softly,

her skin so white

her head covered with black feathers…