On the porch are withered flowers
Not a soul, a deathly silence,
No one is at home but Lokja
Longing for her dead companion.

Alone to bed, alone she rises,
Ashes on her head, lamenting,
No one there to cast some shavings
On the fireplace coals to light them.

Bitterly does she regret she
Never had a son, for now his
Young bride would be dwelling with her,
Setting out to fetch the firewood.

She would keep the fire going,
She would keep the food from spoiling.
With the other ladies Lokja'd
Venture forth in finest garments.

She'd have spent her years like springtimes,
She'd have gently rocked the children,
Called their names with fondest pleasure,
Watched the babies in their cradles.

Now has sorrow overcome her
As she thinks of wretched Trina,
As she curses Death who seized her,
Clutched her and will ne'er return her.

II.

Chrysanthemums but in the graveyards
Bloom as autumn wanes and falters,
And the north wind's begun moaning,
Howling, cutting down the forests.

With the winter do the woodlands
dropp their foliage worn in autumn,
Gusts of blust'ring wind now offer
To the poor their leaves as pallets.

Snow falls as the north gale's keening,
Spreading ice across the country,
From the heavens rage the tempests,
Blotting out the oaks and spruces.

With some shavings in the fireplace
Sits the widow all night mourning,
To the flames her hands she stretches
Like a woman who is praying.

Pale, a light appears before her,
Sad reflection of her lifetime,
Thus revealed is the Grim Reaper,
Coming forward, calling to her.

In the house a ghost has entered,
Like a breeze that filters through it,
In the dusk an apparition
Drifts near Lokja at the hearthside.

His swift arms descend upon her,
Choking her, embracing tightly,
Parched lips on her brow now kiss her,
Darkness reigns, she is no longer.