In mourning

I have become a master

at weaving grief and sorrow;

Day and night I weave

a heavy mourning gown.

I wear it in the streets

toilsome and dusty.

I wear a wreath on my head,

a wreath of sharp thorns.

The sun is in the sky,

he sees it and laughs:

what a small dwarf goes there

in a king's garb.

I put down crown and gown -

ashamed - by the wayside;

and now I must make my way

without grief and without joy!