Since Lenka left
a blouse of fine linen
unfinished on her loom
to go in her clogs to sort
tabacco in the factory,
her face is changed
her eyebrows fallen,
her lips tight drawn.
Lenka was not born
for that accursed tobacco!
Tobacco - gilded poison
for her breasts - pink garlands.
The first year passed
a load lay on her heart;
the second year went by
sickness tore her breast.
The third year the earth
covered Lenka's body.
At night when the moon
wraps her grave in silk,
the breeze above her
sadly wafts sorrow:
>>Why was it left
unwoven, that blouse?
The blouse was for your dowry...<<
