Here lies the fragile body of Lydia, little dove, the happiest of all the courtesans, who, more than any other, cared for orgies, and floating hair, soft dances and hyacinth-colored tunics.
More than any other she adored the savorous throat-caresses, kisses on the check, games that the lamp alone is witness of, and love which breaks the body with its strength. And now she is a little shade.
But, before she was entombed, her hair was marvelously dressed, and she was laid in roses; the very slab that covers her is soaked with essences and sweet perfumes.
Sacred earth, nurse of all that is, gently receive the poor dead girl, cradle her in your arms, oh, Mother! and all about the headstone of the grave permit no thorns and prickly nettle-growths, but cause white and tender violets to spring.