In that this year his wife is dead.
To live without one's half is not a pleasant thing.
I pray to give the hairs of my tail,
To him, Pierre Perrot.
That he may make a light fly-flap
To keep the flies from the horses in summer.
And when the other horses fling and kick,
He will remember the blind mare.
Carry my head to the ferry of Frinaoudour,
To serve as a little boat upon the water.