Small steps,
Chasing from behind,
They have followed wanderers endlessly.
It speaks words,
Like echoes of words already spoken,
And to its words, it weaves insults.
Its inconsolable weeping always echoes in these woods.
One can see it screaming, naked and deformed.
From unblessed soil, it raises its bones,
And alongside me, it runs wild, grimacing, shouting.
Carried to the nocturnal grove,
Cradled into the ground.
There, the child is free from sorrow.,
We turned it into an angel.
But buried in the meadows,
The poor one does not rest,
The forsaken has a dark mind,
When it rose into the eternal night.
***
And as an ihtiriekko, your child causes mischief in the woods,
When it cannot open the gates of Heaven.
The little one walked its path unnamed,
But it shall be baptized in its mother’s blood.
Deprived of love, poor devil of the grove,
It never learned to feel warmth,
The stench of the decaying earth has grown strong,
But it shall bathe in its mother’s blood.
***
A child drowned in the snow,
Swallowed by a wolf’s maw,
Or so it was said,
By the one who wished to forget.
Darkness does not forget,
It does not shudder at its own offspring.
Like a will-o’-the-wisp,
Its sprout shines.
Born and abandoned in the thicket, by one and the same person,
But that sin wanders as a flame among the dark aspens.
A muddy finger points toward the village for a long time,
Somewhere there, an empty cradle rots under a house.
As an ihtiriekko, it was left to wander alone,
But it shall still find its mother…