Solemn cygnet, Fallen cygnet,
Where doth thy shooting star take thee?
Have thou found thy sanctuary?
Curse thy broken wings!

Like fresh dew upon dawn’s meadows,
White storks land veiled in night’s shadows,
And deliver bundles at last,
Into awaiting mother’s grasps

The solemn cygnet they do scorn,
From ever since he had been born
His gloomy feathers (dreadful sight)-
Can only wish to turn them bright,

How others mock and laugh at thee
They tease and hoot redundantly.
While merry little lambs do skip,
A ram is lost amid the mist.

Solemn cygnet, Fallen cygnet,
Where doth thy shooting star take thee?
Have thou found thy sanctuary?
Curse thy tattered wings!