I am no one and never will be anyone,

for I am far too small to claim to be;

not even later.

Mothers and Fathers,

take pity on me.

I fear it will not pay to raise me:

I shall fall victim to the mower’s scythe.

No one can find me useful now: I am too young,

and tomorrow will be too late.

I only have one dress,

worn thin and faded,

but it will last an eternity

even before God, perhaps.

I only have this whispy hair

(that always remained the same)

yet once was someone’s dearest love.

Now he has nothing that he loves.