Works

I'm afraid that fool death will defeat me soon,
The hunger, lice and cold will do me in,
And I'll die as in winter an old beggar dies,
All alone, without comfort of friend or kin....

Our execution’s soon ‒ we’ve out been taken,
And lined up in a solitary spot...
In order not to see a deed so shameful,
The sun behind the hill has promptly dropped....