The little old woman goes to visit
her newly wed daughter.
She enters the cottage.
Silence.
In bed lies the daughter
as she rocks the cradle hanging beside her.
The old one stops, joy
throbs in her heart.
In the cradle—
a tiny little bundle.
Big eyes, full of life,
expressive.
It’s almost as it
there’s only one eye.
It seems as if those eyes
say so much—
of being’s secret they speak.
And the little lips are smiling as
nothing smiles on earth—
everything that revives is in that
smile.
It’s remarkable for the old one to see,
and again rises in the soul of the old one
the ancient, now forgotten
question—
From where did he come
that small bundle?
And her lips whisper
the eternal question.
Her daughter rests and smiles,
exactly like the infant
in the cradle.
Until now such a smile
had not adorned her cheeks
maybe only when
she herself lay in the cradle.
The daughter listens
to the old one’s whispering, slowly raising her head,
leaning on her elbows
and captured by the rhythm
of a mother’s joy
quietly
quickly
says:
Mama, mama, dear honored one,
he came from dreams,
dam, dam, dali-dam,
he came from dreams.
The old one—
much had she experienced.
She’s always fearful,
because she knows of life’s pain.
She pities that the
little one is born to hardship;
and she begins to weep
for the little one’s fate.
The daughter listens,
and she is uneasy, but only
for an instant.
This can’t be.
After all, the Sun—life’s
orb had bestowed her with
that little radiance!
The dew will prepare bedding for him.
Happiness will wrap his cradle,
and the sun will nourish him
with her dumplings:
Mama, Mama, honored one,
God’s little daughters,
dam, dam, dali-dam,
will carry him in their arms.
