Trekking through countless lands, and over endless seas,
Brother, I come to these sad obsequies,
To make the final offerings the dead are due
To silent ash; to speak—in vain?—to you.
For Fate has robbed you of yourself, and now bereft,
Poor brother, I bewail that unjust theft.
Still, in the meantime, take these mournful gifts you’re owed—
Sad offerings enjoined by ancient code.
They’re soaked through with my tears, as you perhaps can tell.
Brother, through all the years, hail and farewell.
– translated by Len Krisak