A pilot moves forward hastily black people: it is buried. In front, two boys with esfilagarsades sandals and old hat, carry the cross, the priests behind them, with face hole apples, arregussen layers tarnished and walk in stride, showing the loose rubber boots and pants folded; four steps, the trunk, from merino lined board with a white cross on the head is carried, reeling, six women mourning, hooded color and rancid butter ciriot off in his hand, beside the enterrador with the tablet under his arm, after all, the mourning, throwing ais and sobs, and finally the procession, two or three dozen men and women: one with the white cloth spread on the mushroom old pants to bowling and shoes muddy; them with skirts lifted up above the pins. Three family umbrella, red and blue …

Everyone who had walked over. In silence the priests, the group was still silent: no more than s’oïa moans drowned relatives and chip-foot splash in the land ensopada.

Behind the fences of the cemetery shook slowly lower the dark cypresses, the ground carpeted with grass, some rotten wooden crosses seemed to tentines; the foot of a faint, desquena the humble row of niches, an old man a cigarrot Shell, quietly looking at a long hole open just. The rain filled the dimples, like a honeycomb bread, the pile of earth removed.