The men were falling—then why not fly?
O mother mine, be not so sorry—
I cannot bear to see you cry!
“They cut me to pieces, but did not kill me.
My head in four, my heart in six.
My white, white fingers they cut in pieces
As if they were but wooden sticks;
“My body white, fine as seeds of poppy—
I was sore wounded in my flight.
O mother mine, be not so sorry