There are dead bodies, sweetheart, in the city
And trust me that I know what I am saying
On bier, the sun is heating the brown coffins
And slowly all the corpses are decaying.
The living, though they move, begin to rot
They look like clay pots burned with firewood
It smells like corpses, sweetheart, and today,
Even your breasts hang lower than they should.
Pour now persistent perfumes on your carpets
Bring many roses and forget complaining
There are dead bodies, sweetheart, in the city
And slowly all the corpses are decaying.
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