Death of the Dear
The drought has destroyed everything, all around.
The sun has now melted and flown on the ground.
All that's left is the bare sky, which burns really hot.
From the wells, all the buckets draw black mud a lot.
And above the pale forests rise often bright flames,
Dancing wildly and playing satanic dark games.
I follow my father uphill through the scrub
I'm scratched by the fir trees, my body they rub.
We start our hunting of goats once again
On the mounts of our dearest Carpathian chain.
The thirst is oppressing. I see when I walk
How boil water droplets somewhere on a rock.
With head on my shoulder I seem to advance
On a huge, foreign planet, where I've fallen by chance.
We're waiting in silence, not far from a spring
Its waters are tinkling, we clearly can hear.
When the sun goes to sleep and moon climbs on a string
Then will come one by one
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