IV

The wind whistles, whistles, whistles!

Perhaps you don’t believe it…

— Does one give credence to the words of wretches such as us?

— It is true, however, that many of of have had happy days;

We recall the house of our father,

Of our father who took us to the fair,

And, from time to time, to the theater.

What a celebration those days were!

Oh! How glacial the wind is! —

We recall mama, mama who is no longer with us,

Mama who made us recite our lessons

When we got home from school:

We always came home late, because of the little comrades we played and fought with.

Mama scolded each time, but she loves us so much!

How she cared for us, our dear mama,

How the slightest scrape concerned her!

— Ah! If she saw us in our misery, she who took on so much trouble to see us come to good…

Perhaps you don’t believe that either…

— Does one give credence to the words of wretches such as us? —

Yet many of us have loved ones that we cherish,

Children, little angels, who often climbed in our knees,

And asked, sometimes, all sorts of questions that embarassed us.

Ah! If our parents, our lovers and partners, if our little children saw us on this winter afternoon,

Marching in line, round and round in circles,

In the wind that lashes our flesh, freezes our limbs and penetrates all through us!

— But, for the love that we bear for them, it is better that they are ignorant of the pangs of our martyrdom.