For my brief songs,
the merrily moaning, the evening red,
Spring gave me the egg of a waterfowl.
I asked my beloved to paint my portrait on its thick shell.
He painted a young onion in brown topsoil –
and on the other side a soft round hill of sand.
For my brief songs,
the merrily moaning, the evening red,
Spring gave me the egg of a waterfowl.
I asked my beloved to paint my portrait on its thick shell.
He painted a young onion in brown topsoil –
and on the other side a soft round hill of sand.