I trudged along the shore of a sick man.
Next to him was crawling string of carts.
In the steaming city carried farce,
Beautiful gypsy and drunken gypsies.
And sprinkled jokes, squealed with carts.
And he dragged next to the sack people.
He moaned and begged a ride to the village.
Gipsy brown hand gave.
And he ran, hobbling, how could,
And threw into the cart a heavy bag.
And he ruptured, and foam at the mouth.
Gypsy woman in the cart took his corpse.
C seated in a row cart,
And dead he swayed and fell facedown.
And the song was bringing freedom to the village.
And the dead man's wife gave.
28 December 1903
