The trees of my childhood standing high in the grass
and shaking their heads: what has become of you?
Colonnades standing like reproaches: unworthily you walk beneath us!
You are a child and should know everything,
why are you fettered in bonds of sickness?
You have become a woman, strange hateful.
When you were a child you carried on long talks with us,
your glance was wise.
Now we wanted to tell you the secret of your life:
the key to all secrets lies in the grass in the raspberry patch.
We wanted to rap you on the forehead, you sleeping one,
we wanted to wake you, dead, out of your sleep.