You leave your father in darkness, my Lucia; from light to darkness, little daughter, you are taken.
But yet you are not taken into darkness; you leave darkness behind you and you shine in the sun.
I see you, little daughter, in the heavens. Do you see me? Or do I comfort myself with foolish pretexts?
Only this grave of yours I touch, little daughter; no life is left in this poor dust.
Yet if your soul still lives we should think you happy, for you died young.
And we drag out our life through light and darkness. Was it for this alone, little daughter, you were born?