A little village lies in the middle of the forest,
Covered over with sunshine,
And in front of the last house on the acclivity
An ancient mother sits.
     She lets the thread slip
     And lets the spinning wheel be a spinning wheel
     And thinks of the olden times
     And nods and falls asleep.

The midday silence creeps secretly
Through the shimmering green region.
Everything sleeps, even thrush and cricket
And the tired steer in front of the plough.
     There suddenly something comes
     Brightly sparkling along the forest
     And flying before it
     Are soldiers with the sound of drums.

 ... 

Look, already they are turning past the acclivity
Where the last little house laughs, laughs,
The first ones are already disappearing into the forest
And the old woman has wakened.
     Deeply rapt in pondering,
     Her heart grows so heavy,
     And her tears flow:
     "He was one like that, too!"