Alone, a conscript, sleeps in quiet.
He lays down low, without a light.
No light to hold, nor warmth to keep.
He holds his heart in delight, despite no sight of comfort or right.
Assuredly, he thinks of one he neither knows nor met, for he has beheld her guise and regret.

Alone, a maiden, stands so bold.
She rests her bosom upon a gate, a work of iron so rough and cold.
A lamp ablaze, right by her side, and a cup full with wine.
Yet she lowers her head, so deep and low, for grief and sorrow do plague her so.
The loss of whom she has not met bears down hard upon her chest.

Love between the two grows so fierce, even though they exchanged nothing but tears.
A bond of theirs not formed, not yet, grows closer the further they part and the more they fret.
They hold their hearts so dear and close, ere they be torn asunder by fear and woes.
Forced by none, but by their own election, do they now wait for the other one and their protection.