I raised a little and dear boy
on my bosom with great pains.
Deio, you are that boy,
I wonder where you are now.
often you are on my mind,
dear boy, are you healthy?
If it isn’t too much to ask,
send a letter little Deio.

tough is my piece of bread,
yes, tough and scarce,
whilst my child, I do hope
is with his bread of white wheat.
My dear boy, whilst you are by your table
without sickness or weakness,
if it isn’t too much to ask,
remember about your mother’s poor fare.

If you can’t come over,
If you can’t assist me in any way,
I dare to ask you one thing,
maybe you will give me that -
I’m not asking for a grave stone,
this is too much, despite the longing farewell,
just shed a tear in my memory,
only a tear little Deio.