In the evening realm of the green spring,
A calm river winds like a silvery string.
The forested hills hug the red sun.
The golden horn gives birth to the moon;
In a tiny hut, the ploughman
is back from the furrowed hills.
The nightingale trills her loving tale,
or a caprice, beyond the road,
in a birch - coppice.
The sunset above hears the songs and
it blushes as if shy.
The earth tenderly smiles at the sky,
while she longs for the remote stars.