Santiago, Balada ingenua
The night has pulled Tacitamuta
On a path of darkness, in the depth.
‘Tis what those kids are saying,
Sitting in the ashes of desolation.
What is the grim rider aiming for,
On this dark and narrow road?
It aims the Nighttide, lingering in the back
Of a black horse resembling liquid dust.
Little children, cry on the meadow,
Gutting the mind with your sorrow!
A man says he saw Tacitamuta
In the midst of two hundred wraiths,
All clad in black,
With shrouds of grey ash,
And the horse that Tacitamuta mounted
Was a void of black.
The man tells it must be known
That through the quiet night you could hear
The trembling of black hoofs
Carried by the waves of the silence.
What stopped the flowing of the river?
Those horse-riders were wraiths.
Little children, cry on the meadow,
Gutting the mind with your sorrow!