Glory to you, inconsolable ache
Yesterday passed away the grey-eyed king.
Late autumn evening was sultry and red
My husband returned and quietly said:

«After the hunt it all happened, you know,
His body was found right by the oak grove.
He was too young to be taken away…
Pity the queen, overnight she turned grey.»

Then, after smoking his usual pipe,
He left for work, as he did every night.
My little daughter, I'll wake up at once
Only to have at her grey eyes one glance.

And by my window the poplar will sing:
«Gone from this earth, no more is your king...»