Decrepit, with no more teeth,
A scroll of years on her horns.
The rough herdsman has been beating her
On the fields she crossed.
Her heart doesn't fancy noise;
Mice are scratching in the corner.
She is thinking sad thoughts
About a white-legged calf.
They never gave the mother her son.
Her first joy came to naught.
On a stake under an aspen
The wind ruffled his skin.
Soon, with a wheat rope,
Mirroring her son's fate,
They will put a noose on her neck
And lead her to slaughter.
Plaintively, sadly and thinly
The horns will stick in the ground...
She dreams of a white grove
And fields of grass.