Emyilia's Heart

When ever I hear a round abbot,
With foalele-ncinse and ruddy face,
Telling the way life is pain
And that repentance is pleasure,
I wonder: \'It may be that to know
How is life as ed to be?. "

Night of her sparkling with thousands of stars,
Weak beam passes pay my
Ulicioara her tight, old walls,
Talking, laughing and crying sounds in the ears;
Voices stray pass through broken windows
And the door closed, the building empty.

Colo., near the lamp, in a small ietac,
See a girl who makes string-n ac;
Her face is a pale weak crude,
Her eyes are upset, eyelids sweat,
Fingers ran fine needle bearing:
She sews eyes on a cake;
Eggplant-e lip, no blood,
Her eyes can not cry the upset.

On why she was born into the world,
A poor leaf on oceanu-n Foam,
A poor shadow, orphaned and poor,
The crowd that nobody ntreab