A mother died and in her grave they laid her;
she left behind orphaned children,
and every single morning they returned there,
they came seeking their mum again.

The mother grieved for them, her dear beloved;
her soul returned to them anon;
flowers with tiny leaves she inhabited, 
with them her burial place was strewn.

By her breathing the little ones knew at once
their mother and they were joyful;
so the simple flower that gave them solace
they gave the name of mother’s soul.

O mother’s soul of our beloved homeland,
you simple old folk tales of ours,
I have plucked many of you on that old mound—
who’ll I give you to, dear flowers?

I will tie you into a modest nosegay,
with ornamental ribbon bound;
and to distant lands I will show you the way,
where you will have your kin around.

There some mother’s daughter will surely be found
who will delight in your sweet scent,
a son will also be around, I’ll be bound
who’ll dedicate to you his heart.