(From Burk)
Translated By John Buerfeind

Mother is combing out the daughter’s hair,
The daughter was in tears.

Why are you crying, my daughter,
Are you grieving, my dear child?

Why should I not cry?
Why should I not grieve?

You are combing my hair for the last time today,
You will never comb it ever again.

This is the last time you will place a wreath on my head,
You will not crown me ever again.


No known music.