There, on the bank of the Seine, are hills tickled by the flowing water, where the palaces of the feudal lords dance; from them wafts the scent of feasts and banquets, and in their skies rises the ringing of glasses and the dance music that electrifies the air and thickens it with dark, gloomy clouds... And along their sides human bodies move like shadows, seeking the crumbs and scraps that the cat and the dogs fight over...

Among those hills our poet stood, leaning against the trunk of a tree, contemplating that toiling, suffering human society, his gaze fixed on the horizon stretching far behind the bewildered hills. And he opened his mouth to express what stirred within him. He said:

O you rich, you happy ones of the world, when you hold your feasts in winter,

and when dancing and revelry engulf you,

when beneath your feet gleam the reflections of mirrors and silver lamps,

and the blazing chandeliers that form circles of light shining like stars,

and raptures of joy and pride show on the faces of the guests.

Here is the voice of the golden bell filling your sumptuous houses,

turning the voice of the hurrying hours into sweet melodies.

Ah... do you ever think that there is a poor man, devoured by hunger, standing dazed at the pitch-black crossroads, staring at your dancing shadows reflected on the golden windows?

...Do you ever think that there, beneath the snow and frost, is a wretched father devoured by hunger and idleness?