In lands where sun and shadow meet,
The Spanish death walks with silent feet,
Through narrow streets and ancient stone,
It claims the night, it claims its own.

The whispers of the past arise,
In mournful tunes and silent cries,
The echo of the old guitar,
Reminds us all how close we are.

Beneath the moon’s cold silver light,
The Spanish death takes flight by night,
In flamenco’s soft, lamenting sway,
The souls of old are led away.

With every breath, a story fades,
A memory in twilight shades,
The Spanish death, with gentle grace,
Leaves silence in its tender place.