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Our children left us, so they say,
One hundred years ago today,
But none remember why or how
Among those who are living now. They died with buboes on their skin
That ate them outward from within,
And starved to death in winter's cold,
Which somehow spared the very old. They drowned in Weser's raging flood;
Were buried in torrential mud.
The earth they trod gave out below,
But where they fell we do not know. A man pressed coins into our hands
And took them off to foreign lands.
They heeded the crusader's call
That into bondage sold them all. We stood encircled in our hoods
And sacrificed them in the woods.
They danced till bloodied, limp and sore,
And do not live here anymore. Our children left us, so they say,
One hundred years ago today.
If you can hear our sad lament,
Please tell us where our children went.