The primula flower, It sings and sings a song in its white blossom and sings and sings and sings.

The cry leaves in the wind
a shadow of cypress.

How leave me in this
field weeping.

The horizon without light
is bitten by fires.

I have already told you to
leave me in this field weeping.

Nothing has become better,
doesn't help with flowers
or guns... 
I 'm run out of everything.