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It is pity burns in those narrow rooms
In the smoky lamps, in the smoky lamps,
A reflection lingers of faces known
In the misty glass, in the misty glass,
The scattered clothes are a strangled man
On the broken chairs, on the broken chairs,
And the shuffling slippers tap secret things
On the dingy floors, on the dingy floors,
In the naked walls throbs the pulse of pain
In the wounds of nails, in the wounds of nails,
And the teeth of time gnaw the rotting wood
In the dusty lofts, in the dusty lofts,
Weep for those who die without voice or friend
In hotel rooms, in hotel rooms.

Translated by Bernard Lewis

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