Here is what a woman told me:
I ran off into a corner.
I had my baby girl at my breast. Poor little soul,
She cried, and I was afraid that sound would be heard.
She was not yet two months old, knew nothing of the world.
Like a tiny fly, mama’s spirit, all she could do was weep.
With kisses I tried to seal that mouth shut.
That black night we passed in such a way.
Behind a closed gate I hid to rest.
She whimpered without end: alas! as if she were dying!
She wanted to nurse, poor thing, but I had no milk.
I saw rifles gleam, and my tears poured like a stream.
They were searching for my husband, to kill him there.
And when dawn began to break, beneath that dreadful gate,
The little girl fell silent. Poor soul! She was gone!
I touched her: she was cold, sir.
Now let them kill me—what did it matter anymore?
With my baby in my arms, I went out, mad with grief;
Someone tried to speak to me, I fled in sorrow,
But I ran like one possessed, I know not where.
With these hands I dug a grave—oh, lament!
There, at the foot of a tree in a lonely place,
I buried my little angel.
How cruel to lay in earth the dearest of one’s heart, O Lord!
And her father, who was there, wept with tears as well.
