Our mother got married again,
The stepfather set about making order,
Took off his belt so we would labor,
And drove us to the garden beds.

We understand life —
You have to work.
We want to and we know how,
And our little field is generous.

The trouble is the drunkards and robbers,
Father’s comrades.
Like him, they are plunderers,
Despots at heart…
We will endure a little longer,
And then we will see.
If he does not come to his senses,
Preferably sooner,
Mother will divorce,
Or we will rise up.