A Avó

The grandmother, who is eighty years old,
Is so weak and old!...
Had so many disappointments!
She turned so pale, so pale,
With human sorrows.

Today, in her chair,
She rests, pale and cold,
After so much toil:
And dozes all day,
And dozes all night.

Sometimes, however, the flock
Of grandchildren invades the room...
They enter laughing and chattering:
This one argues, that one talks,
That one dances, jumping...

The old lady wakes up smiling.
And joy transforms her;
Her face becomes more beautiful,
Seeing so much mischief,
And hearing so much noise.

She calls her beloved grandchildren,
Kisses them, and, tremblingly,
Runs her wrinkled fingers,
Slowly, slowly,
Through their golden hair.

She becomes younger, and throbs,
And recovers her memory,
When one of the little grandchildren shouts:
"Oh grandma! Tell a story!
Tell a beautiful story!"

Then, with measured phrases,
She tells stories of fantasies,
Where there are fairy palaces,
And witches, and beasts,
And enchanted princesses...

And the little grandchildren shudder,
Following the tales,
And forget the mischief,
- Until, leaning their foreheads
On her lap, they fall asleep...