Polin-3-EN

Here lies the sad and weary nightingale,
For the first time, in his own bed.
An eternal wanderer and all tailors’ poet,
A source of songs that’ll be forever drained.

Don’t pull weeds from the grave,
Don’t clear it of snow in winter.
The one down there doesn’t feel pain,
He lives in peace with mice and worms.

Don’t throw flowers on the heap of dust.
Don’t repair what a wild storm crushed.
Let a stray owl sit on the mound.

Let butterflies, bees and flies buzz,
Let the gravedigger’s goat nibble at the grass,
Leave the one down there in peace at last!