With flapping wings the crows Come back, flying all in a flock. Other people are happy, And I only am full of misery. What is my offence? What is my crime? My heart is sad;—What is to be done?

Even the mulberry trees and the rottleras Must be regarded with reverence; But no one is to be looked up to like a father, No one is to be depended on as a mother. Have I not a connexion with the hairs (of my father)? Did I not dwell in the womb (of my mother)? O God, who gave me birth! How was it at so inauspicious a time?