Holding his stalk with the funnel

and the sponge, unearthly image

of an unconscious lancer of Golgotha,

the sexton puts out one by one,

after the end of mass the candles of the Altar.

Where you shone, my God, and led the choir,

darknesses become. Secret corner

lights now only the spring of Mercy

a lampion, final trace of worship,

and what is still alive from the sweet-smelling incense.

And the gates are fastened, the bell-tower secluded.

Κρατώντας τὸ καλάμι του μὲ τὸ χουνὶ

καὶ τὸ σφουγγάρι, ἀπόκοσμη εἰκόνα

ἄγνωμου Λογχιστῆ τοῦ Γολγοθᾶ, σβήνει ὁ Ἐκκλησιάρης ἕνα ἕνα,

ὕστερ' ἀπ' τὴν Ἀπόλυση τὰ κεριὰ τοῦ Βωμοῦ.

Ἐκεῖ ποὺ ἔλαμπες, Θεέ μου, καὶ χοροστάτεις,

σκοτάδια γίνονται. Κρυφὴ γωνιὰ

φωτίζει τώρα μονάχα τὴν πηγὴ τοῦ Ἐλέους

ἕνα καντήλι, ἔσχατο χνάρι λατρείας,

κι' ὅ,τι κρατάει ἀπὸ τὸ εὐῶδες θυμίαμα.

Σφαλνᾶνε κι' οἱ πυλῶνες, μονάζει τὸ καμπαναριό.