Our sage of our grandmother gathered us Beneath the big oak tree
On a very beautiful night
She began to sing:
Born to gain or Born to suffer
She began to utter to us coherently:
Great men are sons of men Whose hearts are walls Weak men are sons of women
Whose hearts are drains
I tell you
That souls of the weak mesmerizes for warmth
Not to strode on the path between mighty lands They always seek for a gesture of fulfilment
But their hands are always in between their plump thighs
She sang again: Born to gain or Born to suffer
Souls of the great search
Go around and around in search for a pursuit
They too know, of glad tidings
Of grand merriment, and sleep
However, they know glad tidings come at night, when work is done
She sang again.
Which one are you?
My little children
A weak soul or a great soul? Whatever road you take, there shall be an end.
Then she sang:
Someday, somewhere, somehow, the soul shall find rest in the hands of its maker
Link to the Italian translation