Dragging the raving gnome,
the women go,
abandoning their flimsy draperies
to the wind.

The diminutive man gambols
between those, his two
brides, whom 
a single nuptial bed awaits.

Oh! gnomides, let the race
be brief, 
lest he weary fall 
when falls the Bear!

No torch was lighted
at the distorted nuptials,
but without, hordes of gnomes
were waiting, eager for the prey.

And in the thick night
a sharp cry resounded,
so painful as to 
rout the darkness.

Then silence. The new 
dawn was breaking; the mad
wives drew their vain booty
from the alcove

And fled with it,
followed by the cunning throng
of manlings thickly 
swarming about

And muttering prayers
worthy only of the anathemas to be heard,
in blaspheming jargon,
in the depths infernal.

By a rough path,
they reached a broad hill
whose sharp ridge
overlooked a sea of blue.

In a twinkling 
the filthy husband 
was downward hurled 
and the rite thus ended.

Now on the summit of the hill,
after their sleepless night,
the two women dance
in the morning breeze.

And, while the day is breaking,
the tiny people 
join in the dance
of the cruel widows.

One shrieks, another mocks,
still another bites or laughs aloud;
a wild frenzy possesses them all,
as in a sabbath.