Poor child, sixteen springs so early.
Oh how quietly you lie here, by the side of the road.
She lived in a residential area, her parents were filthy rich.
Yet there was nothing left there that bound her, she gave herself to a vagabond, who spoke of love, the old story, and she believed it all. So she left, she took nothing with her; only her youth and the idea that he was her husband, she his wife, and it would always remain that way.
Poor child, sixteen springs so young.
Oh, how quietly you lie here, along the side of the road.
They moved from town to town, because he needed space.
The wanderer's life was too hard, nothing for a sixteen year old child.
Her love was her fate in life, it slowly destroyed her.
She could not resist the passion, had to continue to the end.
She was not a child, but neither was she a woman and did not know what was to come.
Poor child, sixteen springs so early.
Oh how quietly you lie here, by the side of the road.
She became tired, looked pale and sallow, lost her youth, her ideal.
Only her love remained, then he left, away from her,
yet she should have known that love was not enough for him.
That one day he would be gone. and she alone, with regret and pain,
that he had a girl for so long, plays like a storm wind with a single leaf.
Poor child, sixteen springs so early.
Oh how you lie here quietly, along the side of the road.

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