She was a little, little girl,
But darkness laid in wait,
Her autumn hair was brushed with death,
The angels came too late.
A fall can last a thousand years,
Eleven times her birth at least,
Death took her then despite our tears,
To wander lonely shores of east.
A cross I cross now everyday,
To live where she had died,
All too common a place to mark an end,
This place where she last lied.