It rises, it rises, it rises up here

It rises, it rises, it rises up here,

the brook wanders towards the mountain.

It's an unheard-of game.

Have I aged? Oh no,

I am struck down on the road,

I'm afraid for my life,

I could die for my knife;

where has the King's own Dyveke gone?

I know not, do not recognize her myself.

They hiss about me like grass snakes,

I must close my eyelids;

they press my hand,

I dare not, I know -

I'm afraid, I am hot,

I have tired of myself,

have grown loath of my game,

I am cruelly placed in the bitterest need.

Jesus Mary, would I were dead!