At the bottom of the pit
there burns no fire, only cold.

And there is silence,
deep, deep silence
filled with vile imaginings.

At the bottom of the pit
there is no turn of night to day.
There is no sun, there is no moon
and all the stars have gone astray.

In the deep, foreboding pit
there lies a silent infant girl;
beside her stands her innocence -
an unlit candle in the gloom
of the bottom of that pit
where nothing else may bare to live.

So here she sleeps, my infant girl
and there her holy candle stands,
cold and lifeless as the hands
that took her from her mother's lap
and set her at the bottom of the pit

where no wind blows,
just that long silence,
only silence and by God, it grows, it grows!

Here she lies in silent slumber
heaving softly, barely stirring,
at the bottom of the pit
while stillness creeps and quiet broods.

Who shall wake my little daughter,
who shall fill her breath with warmth?
Who shall whisper through her dreams
and promise day shall come again?

There is not a scent of sorrow
at the bottom of the pit.
There is not an air of grief
there's only silence, just that silence
and my little sleeping child.

Who shall wake my little daughter
from this drear, plutonian plain,
tell her she is not forgotten
promise day shall come again?