At daybreak on the dusty meadow road
a swift horse shakes its ferocious mane–
a young lad’s returning his home again.
Ah where’s the nook where I was born?

In the meadow waste, ey far in the dark
a flickering fire–travellers settle for the night,–
‘mid laughter’s din they’re going home.
Ah where’s the nook where I was born?

It’s been three days, the rain doesn’t stop,
sullen autumn lowers over the earth–
pain and darkness squeeze my heart.
Ah where’s the nook where I was born?

translated by Christopher Buxton