A young woman was weaving
With white thread at the loom
She was wearing a black dress
Her future was sombre
Why is your thread white
And your clothing black
Are you mourning your mother
Your old father perhaps
I do not mourn my mother
Nor my father
My youth has turned black
And I weep night and day
Swiftly your youth passes
Quickly time slips away
Cast off your black clothes
So your sorrow may pass
I mourn my first love
My young brave lad
His horse returned alone
Without its rider
He managed upon his saddle
To write my name
With blood from his vein
He says, “Marry, my heart
Do not wait, my eyes,
For me to return
My wound is too heavy
Here I will breathe my last
It is for freedom
Our national duty
To fight like wild beasts
Without question or fear”
From the collection's own note: the images with these poems are AI-created artistic renderings by the source, not historical photographs.