O my thoughts, my heartfelt thoughts,
I am troubled for you!
Why have you ranged yourselves on paper
In your ranks of sorrow?
Why did the wind not scatter you,
Like dust-motes, in the steppe?
Why did ill-fate not overlie
You, her babes, while she slept?
For ill-fate but bore you to mock and beclown you;
You were watered by tears - why did they not drown you?
Sweep you down to the sea? Wash you into the plain?
For no one would ask, then, what caused me to suffer,
Nor why I curse fortune, nor why I remain
In this world... "He has nothing to do! "...

By grieving
I'll not conjure for myself
A fate which is not mine;
Let miseries' throng abide for long,
Them I'll deeply hide,
The fierce serpent I shall hide
Near my very heart,
That enemies may never see
How ill-fate mocks and laughs...
Then let thought, like to a crow,
Fly and caw indeed,
But the heart, like a nightingale,
Warbles sweet songs and weeps
In secret; people will not see,
Will not, then, mock me so ...
Do not wipe my tears away,
Let them freely flow,
Let them soak this foreign field,
Water it day and night,
Until at last the priests with foreign
Sand shall close my eyes...