For whom the bell tolls,
He does not tell.
It goes to the mute sky, the dumb earth,
And sneakily, awakens every hearth.

Baby is crying for mother’s milk,
Not knowing she is weaving silk
For whom he will kneel down to respect
And display the best to welcome their inspect.

People’s strong solders are searching,
Under King’s command, on King’s lands,
Wholeheartedly for the bigest pumpking
With their eyes, with their hands.

Nobles, waiting and walking, mumble
The industrious warriors’ delay
While, the Crown is more concerned with the humble,
Comforting his dears, “A good thing must take a long day.”
Silence, silence,
Better keep silence with your conscience.