I am no one and never will be anyone,
For I am far too small to claim to be;
Not even later.
Mothers and Fathers,
Take pity on me.
I fear it will not pay to raise me:
I shall fall victim to the mower’s scythe.
No one can find me useful now: I am too young,
And tomorrow will be too late.
I only have one dress,
Worn thin and faded,
But it will last an eternity
Even before God, perhaps.
I only have this whispy hair
(that always remained the same)
Yet once was someone’s dearest love.
Now he has nothing that he loves.