And the woodlands gave this answer,
Thus the distant hills re-echoed: 
’Call no longer, foolish virgin,
All thy calls and tears are useless;
There is none to give thee answer,
Far away, thy home and people.’ 
“On the third and on the fourth days,
On the fifth, and sixth, and seventh,
Constantly I sought to perish;
But in vain were all my efforts,
Could not die upon the mountains. 
If this wretched maid had perished,
In the summer of the third year,
She had fed earth’s vegetation,
She had blossomed as a flower,
Knowing neither pain nor sorrow.” 
Scarcely had the maiden spoken,
When she bounded from the snow-sledge,
Rushed upon the rolling river,
To the cataract’s commotion,
To the fiery stream and whirlpool. 
Thus Kullervo’s lovely sister
Hastened to her own destruction,
To her death by fire and water,
Found her peace in Tuonela,
In the sacred stream of Mana. 
Then the wicked Kullerwoinen
Fell to weeping, sorely troubled,
Wailed, and wept, and heavy-hearted,
Spake these words in bitter sorrow: 
“Woe is me, my life hard-fated! 
I have slain my virgin-sister,
Shamed the daughter of my mother;
Woe to thee, my ancient father! 
Woe to thee, my gray-haired mother! 
Wherefore was I born and nurtured,
Why this hapless child’s existence? 
Better fate to Kullerwoinen,
Had he never seen the daylight,
Or, if born, had never thriven
In these mournful days of evil! 
Death has failed to do his duty,
Sickness sinned in passing by me,
Should have slain me in the cradle,
When the seventh day had ended!”
Thereupon he slips the collar
Of his prancing royal racer,
Mounts the silver-headed fleet-foot,
Gallops like the lightning homeward;
Gallops only for a moment,
When he halts his foaming courser
At the cabin of his father. 
In the court-yard stood the mother,
Thus the wicked son addressed her: 
“Faithful mother, fond and tender,
Hadst thou slain me when an infant,
Smoked my life out in the chamber,
In a winding-sheet hadst thrown me
To the cataract and whirlpool,
In the fire hadst set my cradle,
After seven nights had ended,
Worthy would have been thy service. 
Had the village-maidens asked thee: 
’Where is now the little cradle,
Wherefore is the bath-room empty?’
This had been a worthy answer: 
’I have burned the wizard’s cradle,
Cast the infant to the fire-dogs;
In the bath-room corn is sprouting,
From the barley malt is brewing.’”
Thereupon the aged mother
Asks her wizard-son these questions: 
“What has happened to my hero,
What new fate has overcome thee? 
Comest thou as from Tuoni,
From the castles of Manala?”
This, Kullervo’s frank confession: 
“Infamous the tale I bring thee,
My confession is dishonor: 
On the way I met a maiden,
Met thy long-lost, wayward daughter,