| On a mountain top
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| By a clear wellspring
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| Laima weaves fate
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| Plaiting the thread
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| A golden spinning-wheel runs under her feet
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| Who will live and who will die
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| Where joy will be heard and where tears will be she’d
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| One thread is long, the other is short
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| As she decides, so shall she weave
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| A cuckoo calls from a tree
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| Behind the window a young lady is weeping:
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| — «If only Laima would give me a son I would nurse and fondle him as best as I could!»
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| Don’t cry young lady — Laima already knows
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| She weaves fate, plaiting the thread
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| For soon there will be time for a hero to come
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| For a hero to come and start his story
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| In your dream you will see what must be done
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| Catch a pike-fish, gut it and boil it She who will eat that pike
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| Will soon become pregnant
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| Half man, half beast — the mare will bear a son
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| Like flint, like steel — undefeatable!
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| But everything will happen as Laima has decreed
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| There will be three who eat that pike
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| A son born from a lady, another from a maidservant
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| But loudest cried third one in the white mare’s stable
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| Half man, half beast — the mare will bear a son
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| Like flint, like steel — undefeatable!
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| They will become like brothers
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| But one will be above them all
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| Not by years, but by days he will grow
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| Kurbads — son of the mare he will be called
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| No work will be too hard for him
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| On the third year they send him to hunt
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| On the seventh he boldly lifts his sword
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| He will roll boulders like they were peas
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| He’s Kurbads — son of the mare |