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Death

Death will come suddenly,
it will have your lips and your eyes,1
it will cover you in a white veil,
falling asleep at your side.
 
While idle, during sleep, in battle,
it will come without notice:
death comes without fail,
it doesn't blow the horn nor it rolls the drum.
 
Lady, you that revive your wonderful body
in a clear-water spring:
death won't see your face,
it will have your breasts and your arms.
 
You prelates, notables and counts,
you cried very loud on your way out:
those who lead their life well,
will stand death badly.
 
You beggars, who shamelessly
bore the cilice or the pillory:2
departing was effortless,
because death was friend with you.
 
You warrior, who with the tip of your spear
claimed lots of merit for your slaughters
and brought mourning and suffering among your enemies,
all the way from Eastern lands to France:
 
when facing the ultimate enemy,
courage and effort are worthless,
hitting it in the heart is useless,
because death never dies.
Hitting it in the heart is useless,
because death never dies.
 
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La morte

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