The candle has something quite secret about it,
An aspect you cannot that well comprehend,
With its wax do hot tears form and flow down the taper,
As you sit observing that saintly stick's end.

The candle breathes out mystic wonder and goodness,
Takes hold and possesses your being again,
To dreams from the Bible you then are transported,
And all of life's vanities wither and wane.

In the drips of the candlestick holder's hot tallow,
Ensconcing your fathers' pale eyes which draw near,
Buzuku arrives, Budi, Bardhi, Bogdani,
Naim's there before you and melts in his tear.

You're touched and consoled like a saint come from ashes,
With the charred row of years stretching back for an age,
You sit there in silence and wait for the candle,
To speak and instruct you like some distant sage.