Far outside [the city], solitary in the desolate landscape
stands an ancient willow tree,
likely still from heathen times,
gnarly, wrinkled, split and hollow.
No one prunes it, no one dares
to walk past it after dark,
no bird sings in its withered branches,
only the east and west winds rustle spookily therein;
but in the evening when the shadows lower,
one hears within it a humming and a whispering.

And if you approach the willow at midnight,
you see that it is guarded by grey little children.
Upon all the branches they crouch close together,
they lisp and they whisper and they do not move.
Those are the little souls, who near and far
had to die before they were consecrated by baptism:
In the little coffin lies the small corpse,
the little soul is not allowed to enter the kingdom of heaven.
And ever more new ones - do you see it? -
in quiet flight they dart to join the others.

There they sit now for the whole year
like a sleepy group of owlets.
But at Christmas, when the snow lies round about
and the Christ-Child flies over the lands,
then [in the tree] there is movement, a ruffling, chattering, laughter,
ah, how our little owlets have woken up!
They look about attentively, who sees something, who?
Yea, truly, there comes the Christ-Child!
With his brightly lit heavenly aura
he flies into their midst:
«You little people, now I am here -
do you believe in me?» They call out: «Yes!»
Then he nods with his dear face
and embraces the poor things and is not shy about it.
Then he claps his hands, casts his arm
about the one beside him - the swarm flies upward
following him high above forest and meadow
straightaway into Paradise.