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At a feast

My young wife

Challenged me

To a shooting match.

She took her bow

And shot through the knife blade,

That cut her arrow

Into two pieces of equal weight.

And I took my bow,

And shot three times.

I shot three times,

But didn't even hit once.

Blinded by anger,

I pointed my bow at her tits!

She said she was pregnant

And begged me for mercy.

She asked me to whip her, to bury her in the ground,

To tie her by the hair to my horse,

But let her give birth to my child

And not to kill her now with my bow.

I did not believe it and shot the arrow,

And she fell and died.

Then I took my knife and cut open her belly,

There I found my child.

The only way for me now

Is to throw myself on my knife,

Let my blood out

And to die next to my wife.

A river of blood

Flowed out from the wound

Of the warrior.

The Danube!